Finding Solace
by bluekrishna
Summary: Solas-POV. Solavellan. Trespasser spoilers. Not all that canon-compliant. Summary: Everyone has secrets. Not all are as earth-shattering as those kept by Solas, but the Inquisitor has her own fair share. Intrigued by her, the Dread Wolf will stop at nothing until he has sussed them all out. Be warned; M-rating for language and possibly triggering imagery. Extremely slow burn.
1. Prologue

_Her dreams are a pillar of flame on the horizon._

 _Commanding. Beckoning._

 _His inner eye is drawn to it, this new constant in his dreamscape as compelling an obsession as he'd ever known. Even here, in the furthest, coldest reaches of the Fade, he can feel the_ heat _of it, licking along his outermost senses. Tantalizing him. Tempting him._

 _The longing, deep and terrible, gnaws at him once more and he knows that he could_ be _there but for the lack of a single step. Circle the fire and sit, as he'd once done, a wolf pretending to be a dog. In comfort and company. Just a step._

 _A step he can never take._

 _Can never_ let _himself take. It didn't matter that her wrathful presence within his soul underscored the dire death toll of his oath, and something in his core demanded he address his own sins. Or that in her grief and rage she still called to him, heartsick and just as alone._

 _More alone now than ever._

 _The both of them._

 _Yet, he still dreams. Of her. Of their all too brief familiarity and treasured few intimacies. Shame averts his gaze from where it longs to linger. In that short span between meeting and parting, he'd caused her so much pain. Sorrows heaped upon sorrows. Yesterday, today and for many tomorrows yet._

 _He marvels at how she could even still dream with such ferocity. If only he'd foreseen-_

 _A bitter bark of laughter leaves his lips._ Clever me _, he thinks as a pang tears through his heart._ So clever and yet so foolish. Unprepared. For so ... _many_ unexpected ….

 _The self-loathing is kinder this time and lets him out with just a few ragged pants. The guilt can be reforged. Loss makes for a sharper, more vengeful edge. He knows this well._

 _The other Evanuris will come to know it, too. They,_ and _their pets._

 _Soon._

 _In the meantime, her radiance drags his gaze forward again and dangles before him the sweet, aching recollection of the softness of her hair between his fingers, the parting of her lips around his name-_

" _Solas …."_

 _A shiver rolls through his being as he pulls further into himself and his web of intrigue. Its hungry strands wait for his cunning fingers to pull, to pluck. To play a requiem for the death of the world._

 _But it is not time. Not yet._

 _So, the Dread Wolf takes the small moment of calm to rest._

 _And remember …._

* * *

"What did you do?" she demanded, cold glint in her narrowed eyes. Something feral danced around the corners of her generous mouth, threatening a snarl.

Solas let go of her hand before she could wrench it away, as she seemed inclined to do. Muscles bunched at her jawline, a twitch on the edge of violence.

Taking a step back, he said, "I did nothing. The credit is yours."

Her glare went flat with doubt and suspicion as he explained further, but the stare didn't relent, even as she clenched her marked hand into a fist. An impulse to tell her to keep it open seized him. His magic, energies intrinsic to he alone leaked from that tiny fissure, and he would bathe all day in it if he could. If he dared.

If he had the strength, he'd take it now. Devour it back into himself.

But he couldn't. Bitterness tore away inside him, leaving a coppery tang in his mouth.

Solas bit the inside of his cheek to quell any unwise words. His eyes started to dry out from the long, piercing glower confronting him. But damned if he'd be the first to blink. A challenge given must be answered. He could do that much at least, weak though he found himself now.

Cassandra spoke then, breaking the tension, "Meaning it could close the Breach itself."

The elf maid's grey eyes flicked upward toward that great hole in the sky, with its emerald cascade of raw potential. They widened, awe and terror lurking just under the surface of stark uncertainty.

Solas took a moment to indulge in a touch of disdain for such superstitious ignorance. The tiniest gloat for the simple of understanding. But then, her features smoothed out and emotion fled her gaze, leaving them steely and clear as they found his again just as he finished, "It seems you're the key to our salvation."

Her eyes slid over him, through him as the others began to speak, making introductions. She turned full circle to give each her full and polite regard, all except him. He told her his name in turn and she didn't give him more than a nod to acknowledge she'd heard. Nor thanks when told it had been he that kept her alive when she'd been newly inflicted with the mark.

Irritation at being so summarily dismissed slithered through him like an ugly cancer, before he remembered himself. Be small. Be humble. Solas schooled his expression into an amiable neutral as he followed the small troupe down into the valley. Down to the temple. Conversation speculating on the why and how of these strange events flew back and forth between members of the group, with the elf maid chiming in only a few words at a time. Her face gave away nothing, but Solas could tell she listened and pored over every word. Even his, though he imagined it galled her.

"By the way, what's your name, Sticks?" said Varric, all smirk and robust chest hair. He craned his neck up to look at her.

The most miniscule of hesitations before she answered, "My clan is Lavellan. Those who might call, call me Alas."

Dirt? His brow wrinkled despite his firm control. Most peculiar. Or cruel. Or … fictional. He couldn't decide which could be more likely. He dropped back a step so she couldn't see his scowl. Or his scrutiny.

"Bah! That's boring. I like mine better. Sticks, it is. Suits you better, tall thing that you are." The dwarf forged ahead with a hum of satisfaction.

"As you will. It matters little," she replied, hands resting with ease on the hilts of two rusty old daggers at her hip. A rogue then? Not a mage? Pity. And a little mortifying that a quickened child would be the one to bear his stored might.

Solas chased disappointment and discomfort away with a heavy sigh. He stared at his hand, where residual energies still chased along his nerves. Strange, though, he could have sworn ….


	2. Chapter 2

Infuriating.

Just … aggravating! Never had he played the petitioner. The supplicant. Two thoroughly dissatisfying conversations with their Herald since the Inquisition's inception and she'd begun ignoring him. He had to chase her all over Haven to ask his questions, check on the mark's binding, and make supply requests. Only to be met with clipped answers and blatant dismissals. The urge to strangle her came upon him more and more frequently.

He traced the sound of her trail of chatter through the whole of the village, ending with the tavern's oaken door flung open, spilling out Sera's riotous, idiotic laughter. The elven woman strode out of it, with a backward wink and a painted smirk on her face.

Only to slide to a chilly neutral as she noticed Solas looking down the rise at her. With supreme indifference, she walked past him and into the apothecary's shop. The door closed with a decisive bang.

The half-formed words of greeting caught in his throat came out as a harsh grunt. Solas's brows beetled low and angry over his narrowed eyes. The shem brat needed to learn some manners. His hands tried to wring the life out of his staff's halla leather grip, creaking and squeaking.

"Careful, Chuckles. If you break it, you'll have to buy one of the cast-offs back from Seggrit. And you know how much of a skinflint _he_ is." Varric appeared at his side, grin disarming. Solas forced himself to relax as the rogue continued, "You'll likely pay quadruple the worth."

Solas hummed, a dark yet noncommittal sound, distracted. Then, he rounded on the dwarf. "Did I hear you correctly? Our Herald is selling our excess staves to Seggrit? _Magical_ staves? That may carry enough residual charge to incinerate any cretin who might pick it up and-and _twiddle_ it?"

"Yeah. She haggles like nobody's business, too. Makes me proud," Varric said, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "I showed her that."

Exasperated, Solas thumped the butt end of his staff on the ground. "Reckless! Irresponsible-!"

"Lucrative!" chimed in the dwarf, unashamed and unabashed.

" _Fenedhis lasa!"_ Solas hissed. "I seem to have found myself surrounded by the gormless and imbecilic."

"Hey, I got plenty of gorm," said the rogue with a faint touch of indignity. Varric made a show of swiping a hand over his leather duster, patting pockets. "Or I did, anyway. Huh. Must be in my other coat. Anyway, got an appointment with the Herald. Later, Chuckles."

Varric sauntered to the closed apothecary door, throwing it open in dramatic fashion. Blue vapors poured out into the atmosphere. A strangled curse greeted the dwarf, along with a barked command to close the damn door again. Solas just glimpsed the hunched over form of the Herald, mortar and pestle in hand. His temper flared a little hotter just at the sight of her.

"Fine, fine. Just letting some air in. Maker, but the fumes!" Varric pinched his nose shut as he grasped the door handle and shut it behind him.

Her strident voice rose over his grumbles, "Bring that crate here. Careful! The comb is delicate."

Solas choked back a growl. Just hearing her talk made his hackles want to raise. He forced his gaze away from that firmly shut door and breathed deep. Just once. To calm his rage. Turning his face into the breeze, he let it cool the flushed skin of his face and neck.

The muffled sound of their conversation still prickled him like nettles, though. He gave a shake of his head and stomped down the rise to get away from their noisome prattle and to, ostensibly, go … _see_ … about these staves.

Only to find he needn't have worried at all.

"So, you see, _daaarling_ ," drawled the dark-skinned human mage next to him. Her impeccably manicured nails tapped over the long-bodied wares in question resting on the table before them. "I've already sapped their lingering potency. I wouldn't have let them be sold, otherwise. Also, Alas insisted."

"Hm," Solas managed. "So I do indeed see."

"How is it this news doesn't seem to have made you happier?" Vivienne looked down at him out of the corner of her eye. "Why must you insist on being so dour all the time?"

"Why must _you_ insist on plastering fatuous expressions onto masks and parading about pretending to feel what they show?" he snapped.

"Oooh, such vitriol." Her face didn't show so much as a whisper of offense. He envied her the restraint. A knowing smile bowed her lips as she said, "Better reserved for, hm, someone else, I believe."

Her eyes cut behind him and he risked a peek over one shoulder. The Herald of bloody, burnt Andraste strolled along the street toward him, crate of flasks put to one hip. Doubtless, just coming from another meeting with Cullen, Josephine and Leliana.

Shoulders hunched, Solas's head spun back round and he stared forward, painting disinterest onto his face.

"I _have_ noticed she doesn't seem to like you very much. Nor you her, I take it?" Vivienne's smile widened by a fraction in his periphery. Then her tongue clicked thrice, chiding him. "Rather letting the side down."

"It wasn't the elves' lack of solidarity that brought them down, Madame de Fer." His eyes warned her of his rising ire.

She considered him for a moment before replying, "Perhaps not. But it didn't and, more recently, _doesn't_ help, does it?"

Solas drew himself up to his full height and stared her down, face impassive. To his great surprise, she looked away rather quickly, head dipping in a sarcastic, genuflecting nod before meeting his gaze again, serene as a still lake.

Then, Vivienne reached up and grabbed his chin between thumb and bejeweled first knuckle. Startled, he froze as she said, "Just like that, darling. A little adjustment and this mask would be a masterpiece."

She walked past him, gown swishing, voice raised in a regaling, "Alas! Lamb! I must speak with you."

"What is it, Madame Vivienne?" the Herald called back, coming closer. Her gait seemed oddly abbreviated to his ear, her tone of voice muddled and warped.

"Oh, dear, please. How many times must I tell you. It's just Vivienne to you."

Solas wondered if trying to slip away now would save him any more irritation. _Or_ only gain the attention of the person he least wanted to notice him standing in the background of her conversation. He opted to stay put, still as a statue.

Vivienne huffed and simpered, "My dear heart, I'm just overwhelmed. Your lovely spymaster has given me a task that takes me to Val Royeaux for the next few weeks. But it means I cannot be at your beck and call for the Hinterlands campaign any more."

The Herald shifted the crate under her arm. Solas heard the stifled clinking of swaddled bottles. "That's … disappointing." Her tone brooked a touch more than mere disappointment. Disgruntled, more like.

"I, too, am just _crushed_ by this unlucky happenstance." Vivienne's heels clacked on cobblestone as she retreated toward her haunt, the Chantry.

"If it can't be helped, it can't be helped." The Herald sighed.

"I will do _everything_ in my power to complete my mission quickly and thoroughly so that I can be back at your side, magic in full force," Vivienne called back. "Now I _must_ go pack, my dear. Goodness knows what's in fashion this season. I shall have to bring it all!"

"Of all the-," mumbled the Herald, behind Solas. Her feet shuffled to and fro. Her flasks tinkled. Then, a sudden silence.

Premonition and dread traced icy fingers up his spine just as he heard-

"Solas!"

 _Damn that Vivienne and her spiteful machinations!_ He flinched, then straightened, turning to face the source of all his recent aggravation. Keeping his expression cool and detached, he intoned, "Herald."

Her face, dirty and discoloured from chemicals, tilted to more fully show him the faint grimace gracing her lips. She paused, lifting her free hand to swipe back her frazzled black hair, littered with specks of dust and debris. Swaying a little, her too wide eyes, wild and hazy, sought to pin him as she demanded, "Tell me you know how to throw a decent barrier."

Seething inside, Solas lifted a brow and shifted to his other hip. "I do know the … technique you speak of, yes."

Brusque, she said, "Good. We leave at first light."

Imperious, she turned as though to leave and the outrage within him threatened to spew forth. His lips peeled back around clenched teeth as he said, "Please."

She spun back, lip curling. "What?"

"It's customary to say 'please' when you are asking someone to do something." Solas shifted back to a square stance, staff lifted onto one shoulder. "Not that you even bothered asking."

He watched her take in his aggressive bearing. She turned her body to align with his, a subtle threat. Her long fingers flared out a little to her side.

Looking into the blown pupils of her eyes, he saw a spark alight. Something he wanted to label … interest. Or perhaps caused by the vapors she must have inhaled entire clouds of earlier.

Counting the seconds, he wondered if she meant to go for the knife at the small of her back. No matter. If she attacked him, he wouldn't back down. Not to her. Never to her.

She blinked, snapping out of whatever drug-induced kill frenzy hovered so very near. Giving him a sidelong look out of a closed expression, she said, "Would you accompany Varric, Cassandra and me to the Hinterlands?"

Solas tilted his chin upward and waited.

The corner of her mouth twitched. Humor? Or ill-temper? _The latter surely._ Her lips lifted away from teeth held clamped together, much as he had earlier. "Pleeease."

A chuckle threatened to burst free at the strange mirror presented to him. Victory flushed along his skin and he let a hum escape as he relaxed his posture, leaning on his staff. Unctuous, in an arch tone not wholly free from sarcasm, he said, "I'd be delighted."

"How very … kind of you. Would you mind taking these down to the stables for me?" She gestured at the crate at her hip. Then her one brow lifted. "Please."

He frowned, but nevertheless put out a hand when she thrust it at him. "I suppose …."

"Thank you. And pick out a mount for yourself so the stablehands can prepare it for a month out in the field."

"Alright …." _So long?_ He juggled the box around, clumsy and uncertain what to do with his staff. He'd left the baldrick in the cottage.

She hesitated again, watching him settle his burdens. Then she about-faced and marched up the incline back toward the Chantry without another word.

Disgruntled, Solas sighed. "Good-bye, then."

"I'd be careful with the yellow ones." Varric suddenly appeared at his side, grinning.

Startled, the elf jerked to one side, nearly dropping the whole thing. He thought a long string of curses in elvhen, shooting a glare the dwarf's way. "And why's that, dare I ask?"

"They're full of bees."

More than a little horrified, Solas dropped his gaze down onto the fragile flasks. "Why, in the name of all that is sacred-?"

"Because _beeeees!_ " shouted Sera, from under the eaves of the tavern. Solas wondered how long she'd been up there, hanging out of the vent. She must have been sitting on the rafters, watching that whole awkward exchange. Her mad, braying laughter chased him down and out the main gate.

"Lemme get that for you." Varric reached for Solas's staff, as he walked at the mage's side.

"Thank you." Grateful, Solas passed it over. He transferred all his attention to handling the flask crate with the utmost care.

Arrangements at the stable took longer than anticipated. Being bossed around already by one knife-ear-cum-savior being bad enough, but _two_ , well, that exceeded their quota, apparently. And _he_ didn't have the luxury of providence on _his_ side. Perhaps if she'd lessen her abrupt and rude manner, others who shared the Herald's general physical characteristics, i.e. pointy ears, might have an easier time of it.

Varric finally stepped in to help before Solas actually exploded. Mounts settled and stocked with potions for the morrow, the two men strode back up to the main gate. Solas turned to the rogue and said, "Thank you, Varric. Again."

"Any time, Chuckles," he replied. "Hey, do you think if I gave this a twiddle, I could incinerate that nug over there?" He wagged Solas's staff.

"I'd rather you didn't."

"What about Blackwall's moustache?"

"And deprive the world its magnificence? For shame." Taking his staff back, Solas sighed as it sat with familiar comfort across his palm.

They walked in silence for a time, before the dwarf remarked, "You set great store in politeness, don't you."

"Don't you?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly. Only …," mused Varric. He stopped at the large campfire in the center of Haven. His hands he thrust out to warm over the banked flames.

"Only?"

"Do you know what a crowbar is, Solas?"

Puzzled, he said, "It is for prying things apart, is it not?"

"Yeah. Removing nails, widening seams, all sorts of things. But you know what it really is, right?" Varric rubbed his hands together again and gazed into the flames. A small smile played around his mouth as he continued, "A lever. Now, levers are something, aren't they. Small or large, mostly overlooked, and they're everywhere. Just … _every_ where. Unassuming. Forgotten in the bigger picture. But you know what, Chuckles, levers ... can move _mountains."_

Solas watched the dwarf sway with the rhythm of his prose. Then said into the silence, "I wager there is a point somewhere in there you're trying to convey."

"You wager well, Solas. People have levers, too. Some hidden, but all devastatingly effective. Blackmail, there's a good one. Crude and obvious, but useful. Nostalgia, there's another. Subtle, but great for spinning stories. They can be complex clockwork monstrosities, or something tiny, something so simple as … 'please.'"

Solas's features went slack for a moment, before he blinked and said, "No."

Varric laughed at his astonishment. "And you just handed it to her. She didn't even have to work for it."

"But, I-" He stopped. His recent small victory suddenly tasted of ashes. With eyes darting up toward the Chantry, he straightened with a grimace.

"Didn't you notice how she explored every nook and cranny of Haven when she first got here? Not just curiosity, but a deep and thorough scouring to find anything and everything hidden and locked away?" Varric watched Solas puzzle it out. The rogue continued, "Well, most of us are easy to read. Our levers in plain sight. We all got secrets, Chuckles. She's the kind who can't help but … _pry._ "

The apostate took a deep breath as he pondered. "But now I know she knows. So how can she ply me with politeness now?"

"That's half the fun, Solas! You know she knows, but if that lever suddenly doesn't work, then she'll know that you know that she knows. And then she'll just dig to find a better lever." Varric gave a clap and suddenly a card appeared in between his left fore-and middle-finger. He spun it so Solas could see the Page of Songs emblazoned upon it. "It's a game."

"Perhaps I tire of silly games."

"You can't fool me for a second. I saw your little dance earlier. You loved it. You'll ante up for the next hand like the rest of us." Varric passed him a flask from an inner coat pocket.

Solas took a swig, relishing the burn of the liquor if not the crass flavor. It washed away the ashes, anyway. His brows drew together in pensive thought.

"Aw, don't worry, sunshine. Rogues may never leave home without a good crowbar, _but_ ," said Varric, flipping that card around his thick digits, surprisingly nimble. On the third flip, he stopped to show Solas. The Page was gone, the Ace of Daggers in its place. "Having an ace up your sleeve never hurts."

"Ha! I'll keep that in mind."

"See that you do. Well, I'm for bed. Well, maybe booze, then bed. Possibly." Varric adjusted his coat, then started to walk toward the tavern. With a wave, he said, "Good night."

"See you on the morrow, Varric." Solas returned the wave. He then headed toward the small cottage given to him for his use. His trappings found hooks and surfaces to rest as he stripped for bed. After ages sleeping out of doors in ruins, the narrow bed seemed a luxury with its hay-stuffed mattress. It didn't even house any of the usual vermin.

The smell of straw and hearthfire lulled him closer to sleep. The acrid tang of sulphur wafted over from the apothecary and touched him for a moment, drawing the corners of his mouth down in a slight frown. It made him think of her, the one called Dirt. So, she would seek to manipulate him, hm? Well, she was welcome to try. He'd not survived countless centuries on mere luck.

 _Everyone has levers, hmm?_ He'd never really thought of it that way. The way an engineer would, but yes, he understood the idea well. Had used it often in the past. He wondered then, if he could find hers. Ferret out her secrets. And what … interesting things he could do once he had them.

A last lingering image stalked him into the Fade. Her eyes, grey and wintry as the treacherous sea, and just as intemperate, challenging him.

* * *

 **A/N: Well, prologue and second chapter uploaded. I wasn't sure if I was going to share this or not. But well, the traitorous egg-man left me with some serious feels after Trespasser, so I could not resist writing ... something. I'm not sure how far this will go. Certainly through the game, but as to how long after, I'm not certain.**

 **I will update about once a week, I believe. Just so I can get all of this out of my head. Please feel free to leave a review or some concrit. or if you want to just rant about silly clever/dumb Solas. I am always happy to listen. Thank you all.**


	3. Chapter 3

He'd not been to this part of Thedas in some time. Not since Fade-walking the ruins of bedeviled Ostagar to the south. Between the mage rebels and rogue templars, rifts and demons, it had suffered, become a war zone. Blood tainted the flavor of the quiet, green places. Sundered it. How that saddened him.

Varric, on the pony next to his horse, squinted in the harsh sunlight. "Ah, the … _great_ outdoors. Bug bites and boulders for pillows. Not to mention the random, but frequent encounters with all manner of bullshit trying to kill us."

The quiet chatter of Cassandra and their Herald spiked in volume. Solas turned his head slightly to listen-

"-I tell you. There's something there! You read those dispatches. Aloud. We all heard you," said the Herald. She seemed different out on the road, less contained. Even her speech took on a different pattern, becoming clipped of anything but pertinent information.

The Seeker jabbed at the map they held between them. "Our preliminary scouts spoke of nothing but bandits. No rifts. No resources. Not so much as a hamlet. It is a waste of time."

"Is it, Cassandra? Is it, really? Simple bandits don't set up shop in old fortresses. They're not that organized. Why would they want to tempt local law enforcement by making themselves easy to find?"

"So you would take us a week out of our way on the strength of some scribbled notes some highwaymen dropped?"

The Herald firmed her chin and glared at the reticent woman. "I know a land grab when I see one. Putting this problem down now will save us more trouble later."

Exasperated, Cassandra threw her hands in the air. "Fine! Far be it for me to point out that we've done much, some would say _enough_ , to stabilize this area. Other regions need our intervention, too."

"A week won't matter for them. But it could be _months_ before we head back this way. By then, these 'bandits' will own half of the Hinterlands."

Varric sighed and said to Solas as an aside, "Shit. This is gonna be like that time with the dragon."

"Dragon?" Solas whispered back, but Cassandra interrupted whatever the dwarf might have said then.

"I've already said my piece. What you do with it is up to you." The Seeker folded her arms.

The Herald mirrored her. "Fine. To the southwest, it is then."

Solas realized then that he'd turned to more fully watch their altercation. Her sudden regard caught him staring. He tamped down a surge of embarrassment with difficulty. With brisk efficiency, she folded the map as she snapped, "Have _you_ got a problem with the plan, too?"

He pursed his lips and raised a brow before replying, "No. Just enjoying being away from Haven. Here, I'm finding myself far more … _entertained_."

She let out a soft hiss between clenched teeth as her gaze narrowed into a pointed glare. He laughed at her with his eyes, lips curling upward at the corners.

With a haughty sniff, she blinked them both out of another eye-watering staredown. Clicking her tongue, she goaded her chestnut mare into a gallop, taking the lead. Varric and Solas exchanged a shrug and did the same, with Cassandra taking up the rear.

* * *

"I thought you said no rifts!" shouted the Herald over the din of battle. She spun to avoid the despair demon's icy beam, then backflipped away from the flood of hunger demons hounding her every step. Her knives cut and cut, but barely found purchase on their less than substantial bodies.

"The scouts must have missed one!" Cassandra shouted back.

" _Ob_ viously!" retorted Solas, Varric and the Herald simultaneously. They shared a tight-lipped grin before matters took a turn for the worst.

"Bandits!" warned the Seeker. The clang of blade on blade drew Solas's attention to the mouth of the hollow at their rear. There half a dozen men dressed in ragtag leapt into the fray. The ringing cry of the mounts filled him with worry. Slaughtered? Or merely chased away? No time to ponder-

"Use the mark to disrupt the rift!" he called to the Herald. Laying out a series of ice mines for her to lead her pursuers into, he turned to refresh the barrier on Cassandra and Varric, who'd turned to try to fend off the bandits.

The Herald shouted in pain as the mark did its work. The crystalline obstruction blocking the rift shattered, dazing the demons surrounding them.

The elf maid leapt atop the nearest rage demon, both knives slicing. With a shriek, its corporeal form disintegrated and the remnants sucked away into the rift.

The despair demon flung its lethal ray on her and she ran, trying to keep just ahead of it. Distracted with trying to keep Cassandra and Varric alive, Solas turned back only to see the beam catch her at last. She stumbled, chilled and still the ray shone its deadly cold upon her supine form. Solas shouted, "Herald!"

Calling upon the element of fire, Solas cast a sigil of immolation under the demon. Magic interrupted, it leapt across the hollow, hood turning toward this new threat. Burning all his mana, he cast immolate over and over until his reserves emptied. Finally, the despair demon departed for the Fade. The rift crackled and sizzled, too weak to conjure more demons.

Solas fell to his knees and crawled to the Herald, whose body still lay covered in frost. He grasped her collar in his fists and shouted in her face, "Herald!"

Teeth chattering, she tried to lift her head. Her eyes, filled with confusion and pain, found his.

"You must close the rift!" He lifted her up into a sitting position and supported her with a knee, using one hand to steady her and the other to point.

Dazed, she lifted the Anchor, fingers blistered and black from frost. For one horrible moment, Solas thought her perhaps too weak to will the rift to close. But then, a wrench and a pull from deep within signalled a change in the air.

She mewled as green light spilled from her palm, the power knitting back together the torn fabric of the mundane world.

What little mana had returned to him, he set to thaw her frozen flesh. Then it was done and they both heaved a sigh of relief, exchanging a long look of reprieve.

Into the moment of stillness, sounds intruded. Metallic clashing. Solas realized they still had bandits on their rear at the same time the Herald did. Her eyes widened and she hissed, "Let me up!"

No sooner said than done. She sprinted for the entrance of the hollow, Solas close on her heels.

Ahead, Varric lay face down on the ground. Blood coated Cassandra's armor from head to toe. From her slow and heavy swings, the Seeker must be at the end of her strength.

A flash of light from beyond the melee caught his eye just as the Herald dipped to one side. Time seemed to slow as she spun to follow the flight of whatever she dodged. Her voice rose in alarm, "Solas!"

A solid blow to his upper chest knocked Solas flat on his back. Stunned, he looked down and saw the feathered shaft of an arrow sticking out of the flesh there between neck and left shoulder just under his collarbone. It still vibrating with kinetic energy. Curious, he touched it with questing fingers, pulling away red.

Then, the pain slammed into him, even harder than the arrow and he dropped into darkness as deep and endless as death.

* * *

So near.

He could feel the warm brush of his power close by. It pulled at his essence, kneading, cajoling. Enticing. It tickled his skin, raising it in bumps. Waves of sonorous motes of bliss rushed over and through muscles, bone and tendon. A tremble rolled up and down the length of him as the delicious fire of his captured potency pressed closer still, right on his skin and stroked along his jaw.

Unbidden, he moaned and his face turned to nuzzle, tongue lolling out to _taste_ -

His eyes snapped open to see the Herald staring back at him, a frozen look of embarrassed horror on her bloody, flushed face. He realized his mouth was open and his tongue was pressed flat upon her palm. Humiliation surged to the fore and he snapped his head back, banging it into the pack she surely stuffed under him for a pillow. The night sky wheeled over him, nausea threatening to make him retch.

Agony seized him. He bit down on a rising scream, strangling into a short bark. Just shifting woke up all the injuries to his body. Most notably, what lay under the wide bandage covering his shoulder. He hissed as he felt around to the back and found a similar dressing there.

The Herald coughed and said, "I had to push it the rest of the way through. They used damned barbed things. Not clean, like leaf arrows."

She picked up a cruel-looking toothy broadhead flecked in rusty browns. His blood. Then the Herald spat and threw it into the small campfire beside them.

Solas looked around the sheltering thicket surrounding them. Disquiet grew as he noted the absence of half their party. Licking his lips to wet them enough to speak, he said, "Cassandra? Varric?"

Tensing taut as a bowstring, she said, "Taken."

"The bandits?"

"Yes. They knocked them out and dragged them away before I could get to them. Cowards ran just as I finished gutting their meat shield." She sniffed. "Scarpered all the way back to their stronghold, most likely."

"Why didn't you go after them?" he said with a frown.

Her sidelong glance at him told him why.

"Oh."

"Unless you wanted me to _let_ the bears have you …," she offered, with a flick of her wrist and a sardonic half-smile. It highlighted the purple rings under her exhausted eyes. He wondered if she'd slept at all since the hollow. She then said, "No, much as it pains me to admit, I need you."

" _You_ need _me_?" Strange how his mind wanted to linger on that sentence. He shook his head to be rid of it as he continued, with a half-smile, "Can't take a whole bandit fortress on your own?"

"Given time, maybe. But time is something we can ill afford right now. They took them. Alive. I expect for ransoming. Three days for ravens to take demands to Haven. Three more for a reply. Then they'll kill Cassandra and Varric regardless whether or not they get paid."

"You ... seem to know a lot about this sort of thing."

"It's what I would do." She sighed, and gnawed on her bottom lip, deep in thought. "You've been out for three days. Given one, but hopefully not two more days to recover and regroup. Makes our schedule very tight."

"Give me the lyrium. I should be able to heal myself to a small degree anyway."

She froze for a moment, then said with a touch of chagrin, "I didn't have any made."

"What?" Incredulous, his jaw dropped. "How could you not bring any lyrium potions? Mage in your party, ergo, _lyrium_!"

" _Vivienne_ never needed it!" she snapped.

He sputtered. " _Vivienne_ thinks hobbling a mare makes it somehow jump higher!"

Taken aback, she blinked. After a moment or two, she said, "Ir abelas."

Startled by the apology, Solas stilled. After a long moment, he nodded. "Can't be undone now. My mana remains depleted, but it will trickle back."

She went back to staring into the flames.

Watching her think interested Solas. Her long, bruised fingers stroked her lip as she gazed into the fire with fierce intensity. In the flickering light, he could just pick out faint lines on her face. He reached out, but stopped short of touching her cheek. "The vallaslin."

She froze, eye turning to spear him. "What of it?"

He'd never really studied her face before now. Angular, but with a strong jaw that drew down to an elegant point. High cheekbones and forehead. Her eyes were spaced evenly, canting upward at the corner. She had the look of some wild thing temporarily trapped in elven flesh. An osprey. Or a falcon. "I … thought perhaps you didn't have it. Why is it so faint? If you are so young?"

The Herald slapped his fingers away, offended. He could see it in the unnatural, bright sheen of her stormy eyes. And perhaps another emotion laid its foundation under that reflexive fury. Something akin to shame. Or hurt?

His mouth shut with a snap and he dropped his hand back onto his bare chest. Looking away, he studied his pendant, fingers tracing each fossilized tooth.

Quiet, barely more than a whisper, she said, "It was thought I could not … blend with the Dalish without it, nor the shemlen with it. So they made it weak on purpose. A half-assed acknowledgement of my place, my role among them. How they laughed as they picked out the pattern with the bone needle."

She husked a dry, hollow chuckle.

He followed the whorls with his eye. "Dirthamen. Seeker and Keeper of Secrets. But why would they laugh at what the Dalish consider an honor?"

"Why do _people_ laugh, Solas? Anyway, it matters not." Her voice regained its strength, but didn't raise in volume. "You know I was sent to spy on the Conclave. Did you really think they'd send a novice?"

There was more, but she didn't say it. He badly wanted to know. Something else more urgent pressed on him then. "What is your name? Your real name?"

"Are you so sure it isn't 'Alas?'"

Solas frowned again, ire rising. "Why must you always be so difficult?"

A sneer ghosted around her lips for a moment. "Why do you even care? You've made your contempt for the Dalish and their ways very clear."

"Only because I have seen Arlathan in her full glory during my travels in the Fade! The Dalish mimic. They ape, but they do not even care to know the full extent of their ignorance. Their pride is unwarranted!" His brows drew together in the face of her blank stare.

Angry, Solas turned away from her onto his right side, ignoring the sick feeling of falling from jostling his wounds.

His enmity faded fast and he said, in a soft, sad staccato, "I can not call you 'Dirt.'"

The silence stretched on for a long time. Then he heard her shuffle around a bit, and stand.

"I must go find some more elfroot and wild onion before the wound fever sets in, and anything else I can scavenge. I may be gone for a while." Muffled rustling reached his ear as she readied her gear. "Use only the pine-knots to feed the fire. It will keep it smokeless."

Something sloshed as it hit the ground at his back. He turned to see a wineskin gently jiggling on the ground and the Herald nowhere in sight. He took a moment to admire her stealth before thirst made him reach for the bag.

The first squirt on his tongue made him sigh in approval. Warm mulled wine, spiced with medicinal herbs. He swished it around before swallowing. A light tingling in his throat followed the pleasant burn into his empty stomach. It growled in consternation.

He looked around for food and saw none. No matter. Exhaustion fast stole away any need for anything but sleep. He took another long draught and let the wineskin slide off his chest and back onto the floor.

Sleep stole him away with nary an argument.

* * *

 **A/N: Oooooh, some private spiky moments between our Solas and Lavellan. She's so spiky. I love this her. Anyway, I know I said once a week, but I was so eager to share this one. Hope yous guys like it too. Cheers! Reviews, critiques are welcome! Also, there will be more elven in coming chapters. If you spot an error, or if I butcher something in the translation, please let me know. Until next time! :D**

 **Update 10.10.15: had to edit this quis's descriptors in the last chapter. so now it's less 'foxy' and more 'bird-y?" sorry, it just works better for later. thanks again.**


	4. Chapter 4

Sunlight dappled over his closed eyelids, waking him to the smell of cooking rabbit. His mouth watered in an instant. Fighting his stiff frame, Solas sat up.

Looking around the camp, the sight of a bare back only a few feet away shocked him into immobility. The Herald faced the other direction, hunched over something. Her elbows pumped back and forth in a kneading, rolling motion. A stained rag covered her head and neck.

A sudden lump formed in his throat. A lump that defied swallowing. The interplay of lithe muscle over shoulder-blades and spine mesmerized him. Scars and bruises dotted the landscape of her skin here and there. He followed a trickle of blood up to a wound high in her right side, stitched closed with black thread. A neat line of crosses. And here and there, evidence of earlier traumas treated the same way.

"Eat," she said, not looking around. Her voice seemed oddly muffled.

With deliberation, he got all his rampaging faculties back under control, ignoring the warmth in his cheeks and ears. He reached out and tore some meat from the coney carcass on the spit set aside to cool. Stuffing it into his mouth, his eyes closed in appreciation of its succulent tenderness.

Then, he coughed and said, "What are you doing?"

She spun toward him, eyes owlish and huge behind thick glass set in a leather strap. The rag that covered her hair also covered her face below the goggles, and extended down the front of her torso to offer a modicum of modesty above her belted breeches. Thick leather gloves covered her hands. "Making a little present for our bandit friends."

Solas stood with difficulty, noting that the torment of yesterday had died down to a dull, bearable roar. Picking up his staff, he leaned most of his weight on it as he hobbled around her to see.

A large, rectangular stone with a natural groove in the center of its incline sat before her knees. Branches of some type of bush lay in the groove. The oblong stone in her hands must be what she used to pulverize the plant to splinters. A thick, white sap trickled from their shattered ends into a leather bowl set to catch it.

Solas hummed and asked, "Poison?"

"Can be. Toxin is a closer word. More specific. But we won't need them to _eat_ it." The way her lower eyelids plumped made him think perhaps a wicked grin hid beneath her mask. He wished he could see it. She probably wouldn't allow him to, though.

He started to reach for the leaves and white blossoms in the refuse pile at her side, but stopped himself. She pulled off her gloves and tossed them in the fire before lifting her goggles to the top of her head. .

"The Tevinter call them Euphorbia. Hahren called them milky mangrove. They have hundreds of uses, mostly deadly." She lifted a flower to show him its perfect radial symmetry. "Pretty, is it not? You can be sure if a lady has this in her garden, then she means to murder."

The way she said the word, drawing it out on her tongue, gave him a chill. "Did _you_ keep a garden?"

She shrugged and answered the unasked question instead. "Delivered into the heart of a fire, this will make a cloud of noxious fumes. Five parcels should do it. I scouted out the fortress-"

Taking a stick, she drew in the dirt. Three towers above surrounding a courtyard. "They patrol here, here and here. All others stay near the signal fires atop the towers. Maybe fifteen total. I couldn't see from where I was, but I think there's a door somewhere along here. That might be where Cassandra and Varric are being held."

"Hmm. Alright. So, what is the plan?" Then he listened as she outlined their assault.

"We attack just before dawn-"

* * *

Solas concentrated and veilfire flickered to life at his fingertips. With a grim smile, he nodded his readiness.

A phantom detached from the lee of the tree beside him and stalked to the wall of the fortress, slim and silent. She wore very little but hood, goggles and daggers and smalls on this dangerous mission.

He'd worried about that, but she'd said, " _It will get into the cloth and burn, burn, burn. The risk is smaller this way."_

" _What about the hood?"_

" _I have to breathe, Solas. I cannot hold my breath for ten minutes. The hood will filter most of it out."_ Then she'd given him a small, strained smile. " _Trust me. I've done similar before."_

" _Trust goes both ways, Herald,"_ he'd replied, bringing up their months of bad blood. " _I don't even know your name."_

" _Fine. Trust me until we get Cassandra and Varric back. Then we can be at each other's throats again."_ Honestly, the woman gave not a single inch.

Flashing light caught his eye. He thought, _she's in position._

Calling on his art, his hands made baskets, fingers splayed into claws. He ignored the tearing pain in his shoulder, snarling past it. Palms up, his hands rose as the five bundles of rags at his back rose.

From this vantage, he could see all the little fires. Taking careful aim, he lobbed them, one after another. They landed where they ought and soon, a thick yellow fog broke over the fortress.

Men called alarms to each other in the haze, soon turning into screams of pain. Solas could hear them shrieking, "Maker, my eyes! My eyes!" "Gods help me, it _buuurns_!"

He watched a shadow dance through the confused ranks of bandits, the flash of a knife here and there causing some to bleat like livestock. A grin alighted on his amazed face as the Herald's silhouette appeared at the top of the near tower.

A large man stood there, clearly the leader, facing his distressed troops. He shouted for order over and over until a knife slid through his throat, silencing him forever. His body tumbled from the parapets to smash into the rocks at its base.

Solas's eye followed his descent, then darted back up to search for the man's killer, but she'd disappeared again. In the chaos, men coughed, sputtered and died.

Three little shadows ran along the rock wall toward the waterfall, two tall, one stocky. Solas ran out of his little blind and down the hillock to meet them.

The Herald shouted, "Don't open your eyes! Wash first! Dive!"

The apostate stopped at water's edge and waited.

They splashed into the stream, dunking under and coming up gasping. The Herald leapt in further, swimming hard for the falls. Her hood and goggles she threw away from her. Cassandra and Varric followed suit, stripping down to their smalls. She must have told them to do so on the way out.

"Varric! Cassandra! Good to see you alive and whole," Solas said, smiling as they turned to look at him.

"Chuckles, if it wouldn't ruin my reputation as plucky, yet tragically unattainable sidekick, I'd give both of you a big fat kiss." Varric laughed, seemingly no worse for wear.

Cassandra scrubbed the water out of her eyes and said, "Let us move away from the stronghold full of mercenaries _before_ giving each other pats on the back."

"Oh, I doubt there's anyone still in there capable of chasing us right this second, Seeker." Solas hummed in amusement. "The Herald's toxin's effects yet linger."

"Alas? She did that?" Cassandra exclaimed, amazed, turning to look over where the pre-dawn glow just barely illuminated the Herald's form under the rushing waterfall.

The elven rogue clung to the rock wall, arms raised overhead, as sheets of bubbling water pounded over her shoulders and back.

"It wasn't magic, if that's what you are asking. Just … alchemy," Solas said.

"Herald?" called Cassandra, wading toward the other woman. Concern creased the Seeker's face as she called again, "Alas."

No response came forthwith from the Herald.

His feet moved without him even knowing, until he stood on the bank as near to her as he could. He spoke, uncertain, " _Da'len?"_

She leaned back until her face cleared the stream. A loud gasp issued from her mouth as she took in great gulping breaths. Stumbling, the Herald reached for him, hand stretched out and searching.

Alarmed, Solas clasped it in his just as she lost her footing. She fell forward, grasping at his tunic. Catching her with his good arm, he pulled her out of the water. The wind carried her hoarse whisper to his ear, " _Ma halani,_ Solas."

 _Help me._

She gestured that she wanted to stand.

He lifted her to her feet, ignoring her nakedness. He affixed his gaze firmly above the shoulders. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing important," she deflected, swaying as she tried to recover her balance.

"Stubborn as ever," he said in clipped frustrated tones. Pushing her dark hair out of her face, he stared. Instead of orbs blue-grey as the tide, two clouded, milky white eyes stared through him into nothing. Shocked, he let her hair fall down again through stilled fingers.

The others stood near, silent and watching with strangled emotions on their faces.

The Herald sighed. "Lead us back to the camp, please, Solas."

Her shaking hand found his elbow and clutched it. Breathless with dread, Solas did as she asked.

* * *

"It was reckless and stupid." Cassandra huffed as she bent over Solas's shoulder, changing the dressing there. He winced at her rough treatment. She said, "You should have gone for reinforcements."

"Don't mind her. That's Cassandra's way of saying, 'thanks for saving our asses,'" Varric drawled from where he tended the Herald's hurts. Chiefly, her skin, where long exposure to the chemicals had split it open in puckered lesions all over. He spread ointment made from elfroot and clean cloth bandages over the worst ones on her hands and feet.

"The sight will return, Cassandra," said the Herald, voice still rough and wispy. More gauze covered her eyes, protecting them from the harsh sunlight. She tilted her face to the sun, as though soaking in its warmth. "Tonight, maybe tomorrow. I can already see patches and shapes."

"You take too many risks. What would have happened if you had died? We would have lost our only way to close the Breach." Cassandra glared all around and threw down the bundle of cotton in her hand.

The pleasant half-smile on the Herald's face died to nothing.

"Maker, Cassandra's in full mommy-mode today," muttered Varric to Solas, just loud enough for the Seeker to hear.

The human woman spun on him. "And you! Talking to those mercenaries nonstop. Babbling away like a-like a …."

Varric tilted his head at her, waiting. "You can do it, Seeker. Find a good simile. I have faith in you. What sorts of things babble?" His tone stopped just short of condescension. "They left us alone. They fed us. All because of my 'babbling.' I kept them entertained so they wouldn't find _other_ ways to make sport with us. What? Haven't you ever had to sing for your supper, Seeker?"

"Ugh!" She threw her hands up in the air. "Well, at least we'll be heading for Haven tomorr-"

"No." All eyes turned to the Herald, whose free fist pounded her thigh. "We're going back in there as soon as the fog clears."

"But-" sputtered Cassandra, jaw slack.

"Damn right, we are. Bianca's still in there, somewhere." The dwarf stared up at her, anger pulling his brows low.

The Seeker made a fist and took a step toward Varric. "Damn it, Var-"

"Would be a shame to have come all this way, having fought off bears and bandits, nearly dying ... and not at least get what we came for," reasoned Solas, tone polite and amiable, pulling his tunic back on. He smiled a gentle smile at her when Cassandra spun to face him, thunderclouds gathering on her face.

Taken aback by the mass consensus against her, the Seeker hesitated, a thousand angry retorts buzzing in her eyes. After a moment, she sighed. "You're right. We are here. Might as well get it done."

A brief smile pulled at the Herald's lips. "Now, who wants to go find supper?"

"Don't look at me. I couldn't find an ant's trail out here in all this wilderness," Varric grumbled.

"I-I am not well versed in procuring provisions, I'm afraid." Cassandra shifted on her feet, chagrin coloring her cheeks.

Their faces turned to Solas. "What? You assume because I am an elf that I know how to hunt for game? That's not racist at all."

"No, we assume you know how to keep yourself fed because you claim to have spent long stretches searching out ruins to sleep in," chimed in the Herald, a savage flash of teeth appearing just for a second between her lips.

"Oh," he said, with a flippant air. "When you put it that way. I suppose I do know a bit."

Solas stood with nary a groan and picked up his staff. As he crept out of the thicket, he heard behind him-

"You know what? That Chuckles is a pretty decent guy. I like him."

Cassandra said, "You like everybody, Varric."

"Not _you_."

"The feeling is mutual, believe me."

"Oh, yeah? _I_ kidnapped and interrogated _you_ at some point?" Varric asked. Then, before the situation became even more volatile, he said, "What about you, Sticks? What do you think about our resident apostate?"

Solas paused, curiosity overcoming him. He strained to hear.

"Which one? The harmless helper? Or the obnoxious, aggravating, talks-much-but-says-little Dalish hater?"

The mage's ears burned as a confusing mix of mostly negative emotions ran through him. His guts knotted, _Why that ungrateful, churlish-_

He'd just set his mind to finding the nastiest tasting animal to bring back for them to eat when he almost missed her speaking again.

"Or maybe … that other one. The one that cares too much." She snorted a bitter laugh. "But about what exactly, I wonder?"

"Pfft. You like him, too," Varric teased.

"You'd be far better off thinking of 'liking' as something that only happens to other people. Not me." The blandness of her tone brooked no doubt to the contrary. "You're all just means. _We're_ all just means."

"Aw, you know you love me, Alas," Varric rumbled. "I'm eminently lovable."

The wind stole her response as Solas's feet started to move again. Thoughts whirled, dizzying him. He sat abruptly on a stone and ran his thumb over the cleft in his chin.

No.

He'd been a fool to think her simple. She saw too much. And so early in the game, too. Trepidation warred with growing admiration and respect. The odd urge to flee almost took him. His pulse began to race.

 _"You're all just means."_

Did she mean that? Such blunt cruelty that would shame the coldest of gods if they could but hear.

Head shaking, he stood once more and strode west, where the scent of hare seemed strongest. His tongue came out to wet his lips in anticipation. How he did love a good hunt.

Perhaps it would help clear his mind.

* * *

 **A/N: I totally forgot to put some notes on this chapter. My bad, people. Anyway, if you've read this far, I hope these first few teasing chapters were an enticing enough hook. As before, I will update around the middle of next week. Critiques, reviews, rants are all welcome! Let me know what you think. Cheers**


	5. Chapter 5

This Valammar, whatever it was, would keep for another day. The flash of bold interest in her eyes cooled as she looked back at them with that key in her hand.

All of them carried some injury, and they had no provisions, no mounts, and nearly no clothes.

Cassandra looked quite uncomfortable in the her wrap made of what hide they could scavenge. Varric stood unabashed in a kilt of the same. The fog had made untrustworthy any clothes they'd found in the fortress. And the Herald insisted they scrub their weapons down with sand and water before buckling them on.

So, Solas watched as the Herald sighed and thrust the key and a couple of found letters into an inner pocket of her leather coat. "So, to home then?"

Varric looked ready to cheer, but too tired to. "Thank the Maker."

The weary travellers headed out, keeping to the safer road. Solas lengthened his stride and reached out with what he'd found on the shore of the stream. "Here."

It bumped her hand and she grabbed it in reflex. Her brows raised as she looked down and saw her goggles in her grasp.

"I thought perhaps you may need those back," he explained.

The corner of her mouth twitched. "I caught an elbow to the face when I first got in there. They're broken. And fine glass is so very expensive."

"With the resources of the Inquisition at your disposal, could you not replace them?"

He watched her think about it. Then shake her head. "No. Tis wasted on my wants. I may find another pair."

Solas scowled. "It's not another frilly dress for Josephine. This is a valuable piece of equipment."

"In good working order, yes. But they weren't all that reliable at the best of times." The Herald looked away and down. "More care and they wouldn't be necessary." Yet she didn't sound all that sure.

The mage rolled his eyes. His tone turned snappish, "You just cannot help but make everything as difficult as possible, can you?"

"What are we talking about?" Varric said, drawn by the apostate's harsh bark, and the Herald started with a touch of guilt on her face. The dwarf looked around Solas and saw the goggles in her hand. "Let me see those?"

She shrugged and tossed them over.

Varric's wide hands roamed over the leather straps and shaped sockets housing loose shards of glass. He hummed in thought as they walked. "I've seen similar before. Say, I know someone who could fix these up a treat. Won't even charge all that much."

The Herald's shoulders pulled up into a tense line. Why did it bother her so? "No, I couldn't impose-"

"Nonsense. She owes me one anyway." The dwarf reached up and slung the goggles over Bianca's stock. "What are friends for, right?"

Clearly at a loss for words, the Herald's mouth shut tight whatever she'd been about to say. Her head snapped back around to face forward. After a moment, she murmured, " _Ma serannas_."

Solas leaned over to say, hushed, in the dwarf's ear, "That means 'my thanks.'"

"So I gathered," replied Varric out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes tracked their Herald's progress at the front of their troupe. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it."

"Wonder about what?" he queried, keeping his tone low.

In a melancholic tone, the dwarf said, "What in the world could have happened to make her believe she's so … _unworthy_ of friendship."

Solas straightened with a pensive frown. He stared at the woman leading them and tried to see what Varric saw. The stiff, straight back. The light jumping of the muscles in her forearms, hands flexing open, then closed, then open again.

And most telling of all?

The brazen red flush at the tips of her ears.

Thinking on what Varric said, he decided it could be true.

His chest ached. Pity? Sympathy?

Or something else?

* * *

A box arrived on his doorstep. Quite a heavy box. When he lifted it to bring it inside, he looked around to see who might have left it. The empty street outside his cottage did nothing to satisfy his curiosity.

Hooking his ankle round the door, he closed it behind him. Solas set the box on his desk, moving his papers and books out of the way. Then he stood back and considered the riddle of it.

No one had ever sent him anything here before. Strange ….

He half-expected it to be one of Sera's pranks as he opened it. A bee-bomb or similar. A layer of filmy vellum rested over its contents. Pulling it aside, he gazed down on a stack of padded cloth.

Sliding his fingers under the olive linen surcoat, he lifted it free. Below that, a light, sleeveless chain shirt, breeches, belt, pouches and lastly, a baldrick for his staff.

A faint blue glow emanated from beneath it all, shining from around the edges of an insert. His questing digits found rope loops, and hoisted the whole layer away.

He smelled it before he saw it.

Lyrium.

Six whole flasks. He marveled at the cost. Extravagant.

Solas ran a fingertip over the necks and sealed corks, just enjoying the thrumming tingle of its song over his skin.

Something caught his eye then, lying on the floor next to his toe. A simple paper envelope with a bold red seal on it. It must have fallen out when he unpacked the box.

He stooped to pick it up and ghosted his thumb over the radiant eye seared into the wax.

Cracking it open and pulling out its contents, he tilted the letter so candlelight shone fully upon it-

* * *

 _To Ser Solas,_

 _I write this on behalf of the Lady Alas, Blessed Herald of Andraste. She wishes you take these "To replace what was made holey." I am not sure if pun intended. The added provisions are available for re-order, as you will. Adan and Threnn have been notified. The Lady Herald also requests that you accompany her to the Storm Coast on the morrow. She says to say, "Please."_

 _May this letter find you in good health,_

 _A LA S_

 _Lady Alas_

 _From the Desk of Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet, AMB_

* * *

Solas stared at that little splotch at the end of her signature for ages. Then he read through the letter again, with its elegant calligraphy only to have the same rude shock stall him at that fleck of careless spatter. And the childish scrawl right before it.

A warm something pricked his heart. And a smile tugged at his lips. Not that he found it funny or deplorable in any sense. She'd had someone else write the pertinents down for her, then signed it in her own, barely legible hand. How oddly … honest, and disarming. If she'd cared to hide her near illiteracy from him, she could have done so with ease.

That splatter. That unapologetic little splotch.

His eye clung to it.

Did she have to be coached through every single line? Drawing first up, down, then across with painstaking slowness and patience? He imagined sweat on her brow. Her normally nimble hands wrapped in a fist around a stylus, jabbing the paper as though it could part and bleed. Like an enemy to defeat.

In his mind's eye, he could see the decisive flick right at the end, black ink flying to deliver the fatal blow.

Aware that he'd been standing and staring at the letter for quite a while, he straightened and shook fanciful imaginings from his mind. The letter he folded and placed in a handy book, one he favored often.

Then he left his cottage, strolling toward the Chantry with his hands clasped behind his back. The chill in the air stung his cheeks and ear-tips, but he paid them no mind. He slipped in through the big doors behind some parishioners.

As on earlier visits, the incense, thick and cloying, made his eyes water and burned in his nose. Solas breathed a sigh through his mouth. He nodded to Vivienne, who turned to watch his progress with pursed lips and raised brows.

Passing pew after pew, the apostate veered left at the end and knocked on the wooden door there. Raised voices in the war room told him another meeting must be under way. Hopefully, the one he'd come to see hadn't attended.

"Come in," said a soft feminine voice, accent heavy.

He pushed the door open and stepped into Josephine's little kingdom. For a moment, he pictured all the dealings and contracts, the pledges, pacts and bargains that happened in here to be the spokes of the Inquisition's wheel, with Leliana as the grease, and Cullen as the muscle pushing it along.

"Yes?" the Antivan queried, abrupt at the interruption. Then she looked up and started. Wide eyes blinking, Josephine said, "Oh, Ser Solas! I … don't believe I've ever seen you in here before."

"That's true. I have never had cause to visit your office …." He paused. "Before."

"How-how may I help you?" Her nervousness amused Solas.

"Well, a mysterious package showed up on my doorstep this morning. Along with a note."

Flustered, she thrust the quill in her hand back in its inkwell.

"The Inquisition must be going quite well if we can afford messengers now, especially for deliveries a mere two hundred paces from the Chantry door," mused Solas, running a finger over the books in her bookcases. Mostly noble lineages and history. His eye paused over a copy of _Hard in Hightown_. He sighed. A book that haunted every bookcase in Haven, it seemed. Perhaps he _should_ rea-

"Was something the matter?" Josephine's hand flew to her mouth. "Don't tell me it didn't fit! Oh, I will have to find the tailor. Minaeve, would you be so kind as to stick your head out and shout for the Quarte-"

Solas interrupted, "No need. It's fine. I just came to ask you to relay a message to, what was it again? The ' _Blessed_ Herald of Andraste?'" He chuckled. "I'll wager words were had."

Color darkened the woman's already dark cheeks. "Don't remind me. She wanted to scratch it out, but I wouldn't show her which passage."

His polite smile widened. "Well, anyway, my message. Tell her I will be saddled up and ready come morning."

The Antivan's brows drew up and together. "Could you not have told her this yourself?"

"What, and disrupt the new status quo? Besides, she's busy, I'm sure. Just mention it in passing. And thank her for her gift." He turned to leave. His hand just barely brushed the doorknob when the door suddenly swung toward him. A quick step back saved him a broken nose.

"-already had this conversation with Josephine. Do not, I repeat. Do. _Not_. Contact my clan. I don't care if you think they can promise us gryphons that shit gold. They can-" the Herald ranted, pausing in the doorway to jab a forefinger at Leliana to punctuate her words. The distracted rogue made to step in and almost collided with his chest. She stopped short and peered up at him, surprised.

Not as 'up' as he'd expected, though. Her height rivaled his but for maybe half an inch.

This close he could smell the lilac and lye she must clean herself with. And elfroot. And other herbs. Solas caught the door with his hand as it started to swing closed again. Her eyes shot over to it, then back to him.

And all he could think of was that damn splotch.

The few inches between them charged with something indefinable as the awkward moment stretched on and on.

She stared, unwilling to bend. He entertained the notion of staying there in her way all day.

Finally, just as the first touch of livid red graced her cheeks, Solas thrust the door further open. He gestured for her to pass under his arm with a smile, and said, " _Lethallan."_

Wary, as though he may pounce on her, she slid under his arm into the room, facing him the whole time. Her expression remained blank but for the betraying blush.

Leliana bowed under as well with a sweet, "Merci beaucoup _._ "

With a courtly bow of his own, Solas stepped out. Just before the door closed, he heard Josephine comment, in what she probably thought a whisper, "You know, I never realized until now how _tall_ Solas is. For an elf, I mean."

* * *

 **A/N: Welly welly well, the first touches of fascination turn in an interesting direction. Dun dun DUUUN. /dramatic music. Ooooh, I always fear talking too much about the chapters, in case I give stuff away. The temptation, the TEMPTATION! It eats at me. lol. So what YOU think, kind reader? Let me know. Reviews, critiques, etc. are all welcome. Cheers!**


	6. Chapter 6

He did not like the Qunari.

He did not like the way the Qunari slid into their party as though there for years. The easy familiarity rankled and roused his suspicion.

Each boisterous laugh grated on Solas's nerves.

' _The_ Iron Bull.' As though the monstrous warrior could dare to have a name under his Qun. 'The Gentle Path', indeed. Why not make every citizen Tranquil while they're at it?

At the thought of that abomination, Solas shivered. To be completely cut off from the Fade? Might as well chop off his hands, pluck out his eyes, put a spike in his eardrums, and rip his tongue out. They would hollow a man out and leave him to stumble about fully aware his very soul had been … amputated.

"Okay! That's bad aaaasss!" shouted Bull, delight and wonder in his tone. He pointed further down the beach.

Solas wrenched his attention away from irate thoughts and looked. A series of heavy wingbeats pounding the air preceded the plunge of a high dragon onto the wet, sandy shore. She roared, then ducked a boulder flung by a-a _giant_? The huge hirsute monster threw himself forward to grapple with the dragon.

His jaw went slack watching the two behemoths battle. The very ground trembled under his bare feet.

The Iron Bull started forward, the fool, axe at the ready.

"Stop," said the Herald, hand slicing through the drizzly air. She motioned for them to fall back before flattening in the tall grass to creep closer. Not to be left behind, the rest followed.

Sera scrambled behind a fallen log, motioning everyone else to join her, except Bull, to whom she hissed, "Not you, you idiot. You're too big."

The Qunari dropped a salacious wink. "That's what _she_ said."

Clearly disgusted, Sera made fake retching noises. "Go find a small mountain to hide behind, you daft twat."

"I got a better idea. Let's shout and charge right in there."

Solas rolled his eyes and turned to the Herald. He wiped rain off his skull, dismissing the chilly trails of it seeping down the back of his collar. "We could just go around. We do not have to engage at all."

The Herald's eyes remained riveted on the battle. They followed as the high dragon spat lightning and beat her wings, making a whirlwind that sucked the giant close enough for her huge jaws to snap at vital parts. Then the tail swept around to try to take the legs out from under the hulking colossus. The giant responded by throwing a wide punch that dazed the dragon.

"If we're just going to watch, we could at least take bets," muttered Bull.

"Alright. I got twenty says elfy here craps his breeches next time that dragon roars," said Sera, with a twisted grin.

Solas ignored the comment as he, too, became engaged in watching the fight. He hadn't laid eyes on a high dragon outside of Fade dreams in ages too long to count. They'd lost none of their gloriousness.

Then the high dragon gave one last howling shriek and flung herself into the air, flying up and away from the bellowing giant.

"Aaaw, it flew away," said Bull, pouting.

The Herald drew her daggers and stood. She shot a wild look at them before giving a small, feral smile. " _Now_ we shout and charge in. Sera, get your bees ready."

With a glee unrestrained, Bull and the blond elf leapt into the fray. The giant, furious and blooded, bawled a challenge and tried to stomp out these nuisances pricking it with arrow, axe and knife. Solas refreshed barriers between immolates and fire mines.

Soon, the giant fell, causing a small earthquake that echoed out across the water. Pebbles slid from mountain to beach.

Solas sat on a rock under the cover of a tree. Some rain peppered him, but not much. He pulled out his waterskin, sucking in air to slow his ragged pants. Nearby, Bull cursed, yanking at his axe, which stuck out of the back of the giant's skull. The Herald rummaged around the corpse, looking for loot as she often did. He never really understood her morbid fascination with robbing the dead.

A bee, a survivor from the fight, buzzed around his head, probably weary of fighting the downpour. It alighted on his left thumb. Fascinated, the mage studied its bands of yellow and black, the fur on its legs and abdomen, its large, multi-faceted eyes. He tipped his waterskin, right forefinger over the nozzle and brought a single drop close to his new comrade. Solas whispered, in elven, " _Drink, little soldier. The battle is won, the day yours."_

Mandibles flexing, the insect sucked at the water greedily. Solas watched with something akin to affection, a warm spot growing under his breastbone.

"I hope it stings you," said a sudden voice right at his elbow. He turned to see Sera sitting on the sand next to his rock. Her head tilted as she looked back. "Or is this is some sort of elfy nature thing? Looks ridiculous, if you didn't know."

Noting that the bee had flown, he sighed. With a touch of sarcasm, the apostate said, "Ah. Yes. Elvhen bee charming. Very traditional. Right up there with frolicking in the wood, stark naked, at the height of midsummer eve."

"You havin' me on? Alas, is he takin' the piss?" Sera turned to their leader. "I mean …. Naked is nice. But woods. They got these pokey things all over. And dirt. Heaps of it."

A bag landed with a muffled clank on the beach to his other side. The Herald dropped down next to it on her rump, and spread out the map across her thighs. Her face set in a serious deadpan, she replied, "Oh, yes. Many's the night I'd frolic through the heather under the full moon. Sometimes, the halla would join. And sometimes …even bears. With picnic baskets."

"G'on!" Sera laughed, rolling back into the sand. "What a load of pish. Wot sort of picnic would _bears_ have? Lickle finger sammies and shite?"

"Fancy dress." The Herald's spine straightened from her customary hunch and she plastered a punctilious sneer on her face, looking down her nose at Sera. Her hands mimed teacup and saucer, pinky stuck straight out. Her voice became the very study of culture, throaty and smooth, "La, Teyrn _Bear_ ington. I _do_ believe the salmon is a bit off."

"Hahahahahaha!" Sera clutched herself about the ribs and wheezed. "Ugh, can't breathe! Can't breathe!"

Solas had to admit he found it a tad humorous as well, commenting, "Does Vivienne _know_ you do a credible impression of her?"

The Herald sunk back into a slouch. "No. And if she did, she'd probably say 'Imitation is the sincerest blah, blah, blah ….'" Her words trailed off as she stared hard at the map in her lap.

"What would who say?" said Bull, plopping down into the sand with his axe across his knees.

"This posh bint we know. Thinks her farts smell like roses." Sera snorted. "Always goin' on like, 'What _are_ you doing to that ratnest you call hair?' and 'Is that blood on your shoe?' S'wot if it is anyway. S'my shoe."

Iron Bull echoed her snort. "Sounds like a barrel of laughs. Can't wait to meet her."

Sera looked around with a scowl, and fluffed her damp hair. "Sod this soggy tangle. Word at camp is there's not so much as a tavern in this whole Maker-forsaken traipse-arse. _Not_ one!"

"That's just piss poor land management," Bull said. His hand caught some rain and flicked it back out onto the beach. "And, I noticed it doesn't really … let up out here. Just rain, for weeks. Breaks for maybe an hour at a time. I wonder if the rifts have anything to do with that."

"Harding said there's some abandoned cabins here and there. We'll bunk in one tonight and head for Haven tomorrow." The Herald stood and stretched. "Come back with oilcloth tents and some better rainproof gear."

"And _not_ me," said Sera. "You can find some other idiot to bring along next time."

The Herald ducked out into the shower, swinging her loot over one shoulder. Sighing, Solas stood and followed, with Sera and Iron Bull chattering behind.

They soon saw two cabins in the misting rain just as the sun started to set. The wind carried the faintest hint of sickly-sweet carrion. The Herald's fervent stride slowed. She, too, seemed to notice the change in atmosphere.

"Something's not right here, boss," said Bull, head up and scanning their surroundings.

Just then, forms sprang out of the brush around them. The fading light glinted off naked blades.

Solas dropped a barrier over Bull just as the Qunari charged the nearest foeman. Then he turned and dropped three fire runes behind their party so they couldn't be attacked on all sides. The Herald jumped and spun and cut with those devilish knives of hers while Bull had their enemies' attention. Sera dropped the ones who'd tried to pick their way past the mines.

Though the skirmish lasted scant minutes, the small band nevertheless sagged in the mud. Exhaustion pulled at Solas's bones.

Sera muttered behind him, "I hate this bluddy place."

"I found our missing soldiers," said the Herald, tone grim as she leaned on the doorframe of one of the derelict cottages. What light remained sifted through the collapsed ceiling onto corpses strewn every which way. Inquisition uniforms on every single one.

Silence stretched until Solas said, "We should inform their families."

The Herald stared hard, then sighed, deep and harsh, and turned away, tiredness etched into her face. She tucked something into her coat. "We'll build a pyre tomorrow. I think the other cottage's stable still has most of a roof."

Soon they all sat around a modest fire, backs resting on the few dry hay-bales they could find. The rain had stopped, for now. The stalls hadn't seen beasts in a while and, so, were clean of manure. The lack of chatter filled the air to bursting, a hush imposed by the presence of those sad, broken men next door.

The Herald draped an arm around Sera's shoulder, sharing the warmth of her cloak, but for whose comfort Solas could not say.

"Well, I'm going to hit the hay," announced the Iron Bull, crawling into a stall. A soft whump resounded as the man quite literally fell into bed.

"I, too, am tired. Good night." Solas scooted back until his back hit the pile of straw in his own narrow stall. He closed the half-door with a small kick. Laying back, he closed hiseyes. But try as he might, sleep escaped him. He kept thinking about the day's events.

And how the Herald's face had pulled in deeper concern over a few dead soldiers than it had when confronted with a giant. Or a dragon. How peculiar. Or rather, peculiar for _her_.

Sounds broke into his reverie and he strained to listen.

"Mmmm. Smell so nice," whispered Sera. Solas's eyes opened a fraction and peered through the slats of the gate. He could just make out the blond elf burying her face at the Herald's neck.

"Sera," warned the Herald, just as soft. Her eyes reflected firelight like a beast's. Then those twin lamps disappeared. Closed?

"Come on. It's just a bit of fun." Sera lifted a hand and ran a finger over the Herald's ear. All the way out to the sharp tip. Her mouth lifted up and captured a lobe between incisors.

The rogue shivered, hissed and grabbed her wrist. "I said no."

Sera pressed closer, other hand running over the Herald's inner knee. "You're like me. Gutter through and through. I seen it when we met. If you didn't shine, you'd be where I am. Was. No, _am_."

The Herald said nothing, just held Sera away until she stopped reaching. The hurt on the blond's face twisted her mouth into something painful to witness.

"Suddenly too good for the likes of me?" Sera pulled herself to her feet, muttering a low, angry, "Fine! Die alone then."

She stomped off into the far stall, near slamming the gate behind her. Solas didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until it left him in a soft exhale.

The Herald scrubbed her face with her hands, shaking out her sweaty tangle of short, spiky black hair. Her head tilted back as she gazed at something above. Moonlight striping her features told Solas the sky must have cleared.

Then her head inclined a little to one side and she stood, still staring upwards. Silent, she stalked to the ladder attached to the side of the building and climbed up and out of sight.

He sat up, trying to catch a glimpse of her through broken beams. Listening for footfalls, he heard nothing.

Bull's huge head appeared over the stall wall, also looking upwards. Solas glared at him with suspicion.

The horned man looked down at him with his one eye, expression mild with raised eyebrows. Then he jerked his head in the direction of the ladder with a small smile and sank back down into his stall.

Solas pondered for what reasons Bull might encourage him to seek out the Herald for a long time, looking for hidden angles.

Finally, he sighed and stood, shaking off loose hay. Climbing the ladder, he stopped near the top to peer around. In the shadow of the eaves, he saw a small light. A candle, clutched in her one hand, being held right up next to a slip of paper.

Her gaze, reflecting the softer glow of the candle, found him at the edge of the roof. A wry twist pulled her lips downward at the corners.

He stepped gingerly onto the roof and padded over to her, sitting near but not too near.

The Herald's eyes narrowed, straining, flicking back and forth over what must be the same passage, over and over again. He watched her grow more and more frustrated. Until her hand fell to her side, crumpling the paper between her fingers.

"Bad news?" he queried, soft and devoid of bias.

That earned him a huffed laugh. "You could say that. The Herald of flaming, rutting Andraste can't make head nor tail of it. A word in five maybe."

Reaching out, he opened her fist and took the note, smoothing it back out and giving it a perfunctory read. Then he flipped it over to peruse the attached recipe. Interesting.

His eyes lifted to see hers above the note, demanding him to share. She said, "Well?"

Clearing his throat, he scooted over to sit shoulder to shoulder with her. He gestured for her to bring the candle close once more. Using his index finger to mark out each word, he read aloud, slow so she could follow-

" _It's not our place to disagree. They're attempting to set themse …."_ Her lips moved along with his reading. He could see her trying to cement the bond between sound and symbol.

When he finished the one side, he read aloud the other. The Herald plucked it out of his hand at the conclusion, mouth twitching as she sought to capture the words herself.

He broke the silence with a measured murmur, "She did not mean it, you know. Sera."

The Herald snorted, eyes never leaving the note. "Yes, she did. She may not later, but right then she did with her whole heart. As Sera does with everything."

Bothered by the lack of emotional reaction, he said, "It doesn't bother you?"

"It was _always_ a foregone conclusion." She didn't let him dwell on that, instead she flipped the page again, then glanced at him sidelong with a touch of chagrin. Waving the paper, she said, "Cassandra understands. She didn't have the patience to show me, but she helped without … judgement."

"Not many would. They would expect perfection from the supposed savior."

"I don't care what they think. What they say. Now or ever." A long silence fell then.

Too curious to hold back any longer, Solas pushed with a careful, "What sort of spy doesn't need to read?"

"The kind that already knows what she needs to," retorted the Herald. She folded the page and stuffed it in a pocket. "Maybe requisitions can do something about that … Mercy Crest, or whatever. Looks like we're going to stick around for a bit. See about getting some payback for ours."

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter in the can. Woot. Just so you people know. I really like Sera. I know the fandom in general don't like her all that much. But I really do. Her speech pattern intrigues me. As does Cole's. Anyway, if you've read this long, I hope you still find it entertaining. Gimme some feedback. I love it. Cheers!**


	7. Chapter 7

It took near a week to have the item in question made. The closest smithy was two days' hard ride south, in a place called Crestwood.

When it came, it came in the hands of an unlikely courier.

"Heard you needed this." Deep, gravelly. The sound of something smacking into a palm just outside the tent.

Solas opened his eyes, then shut them again, disoriented. His waking mind insisted he still dreamt. Inner senses reeled as they always did upon leaving the Fade. Where is the magic that should hang heavy like ripe fruit on the air? Where once integral and intrinsic, it now hovered near and far at the same time, detached. How came he to this desolate, riven place? The wrongness of it chilled him every time.

Then he'd remember, and the guilt threatened to eat his heart whole.

Most mornings it took a while to convince himself that while a nightmare the world had become, it couldn't be banished by sheer will. He had to live this nightmare.

For now.

Shaking his head, he sat up in his cot. His pendant swung against his bare chest. He reached for his tunic.

Sera whooped. "Alright! No more sodden smalls for this girl. _I'm_ off."

Hooves stomped the ground, spraying mud against the wall of the tent. A horse neighed, in impatience. For the journey or for the rider, who could say.

"Be careful. Stay with the Inquisition scouts on the way back to Haven," called the Herald after her.

"As if you really care. I'll be thinkin' of you dupes when I'm all toasty toes and beer-y. " Her voice got fainter. Solas pushed the tent flap open to catch a last glimpse of flying blond hair above a cloud of dust.

"There she goes," said Blackwall, standing near the Herald, hand waving to fend off the dust.

"I can't say I'm _un_ happy to see her go," Solas said. "Her manner has been … poor, of late."

"Just of late, eh?" The Warden chuckled.

"Aw, Sera's alright," chimed in the Iron Bull, stepping free of his own tent. "I'm the Iron Bull. Or just Bull. Good to meet you."

"Blackwall, at your service." The two men shook hands over the requisition table. The Warden turned to the Herald. "Collecting more strays, I see."

"They keep following her home," said Solas, stepping forth to stand with them. "Soon there won't be room enough at the end of her bed for all of us."

The Warden and Qunari laughed. Bull's grin turned to their Herald, who'd rolled her eyes. He said, "So what now, boss?"

"Now, we, or rather I, will infiltrate the Blades of Hessarian's base and … _see_ about their leader," her voice, cold as winter, rolled over Solas's prickled skin. "Blood for blood. Lin'sul'lin. The oldest contract."

"Then what'll _we_ do?" asked Blackwall.

" _Someone_ has to bang them on the head as they chase me out."

And so it came to be.

Not that anything is ever that simple. Another full day's surveillance of the actual stronghold, all of them tracking, timing and counting. Then, at the best window of opportunity, Solas watched, trepidation freezing his guts, as the Herald strolled, brazen as you please, right through the heart of the enemy camp.

Wan sunlight glinted off that token round her neck as she parted crowds of bandits, heading straight for their chief. From his hiding place in a tree close to the wall, Solas pushed worry aside and readied himself.

Her hand edged toward her knife, slow and casual. Within arm's length of the man, she struck-

Only to be knocked sideways by a flying, furry body. Yet another dog appeared, growling and circling the pair wrestling on the ground. With a loud yelp, the first fell to one side, blood pouring from its slit throat. The Herald rolled up onto her toes, squatting, bleeding but furious.

The bandit leader spun, eyes squinted in rage. He took in the elf crouching in the middle of his camp and shouted, "You would challenge the Blades of Hessarian?"

"You killed soldiers of the Inquisition." She grit her jaw and pulled out her other knife. A savage light came into her eyes. "That can not stand."

The leader gestured his men back. "You want justice? Come claim it!"

The dog leapt in, all snarling, snapping teeth. With a spin, she planted a foot in the side of its head. It went sprawling, dazed.

With an overhead chop of his axe, the leader waded in. The Herald dodged to one side, spinning neatly behind him, knives already dipping and slicing. The human yelled in pain, turning to face the elf attacking him. The Herald slid low under the axe as it tried to cleave her across the chest. One knife flipped in her palm and she thrust it hilt-deep into the man's calf.

He screamed and fell back, clutching at his leg and the handle of the buried dagger. The dog, recovered, flew through the air, seizing the Herald's empty hand in its maw. Then it started pulling, jerking her around the arena. Solas saw the woman's face pale under her grimace, but her other hand came swinging around, pommel leading. It smashed into the canine's jaw. Once, twice. On the third, the dog let go, jaw hanging off at an unnatural angle.

She gave it a heavy heel kick to the ribs, hard enough that Solas could hear bones crack. Blood flecked the foam at the mutt's mouth as it limped away to collapse in the dirt.

With a backflip to avoid the leader's sudden rush, the Herald squared off with him. She clutched her bloody right hand to her chest. They circled like wary wolves, faces drawn in hate.

The leader brandished her other weapon in his off-hand, having pulled it from his flesh. "I'm going to stick you with your own steel, woman." He made a lewd pumping motion with the dagger.

Her lips peeled back in a wicked leer. Two dimples appeared in her cheeks. "More like you just come to hand it back to me, eunuch."

With a roar, the man charged. His axe parted the air, repeatedly. The knife in his other hand stabbed toward her, but he lacked her smooth coordination with two weapon-fighting. She slid around each swing, nicking him here and there, bleeding him drop by drop.

Growing desperate, the man tried to close to grapple. The Herald spun into a low kick, taking his legs out from under him. He landed on his face with a surprisingly gentle 'oof.' The Herald stomped on his dominant hand. He shrieked and dropped his axe in the dirt. She kicked it away.

Then she dropped a knee into his back and wrenched her blade free of his left fist. She holstered it, then lifted his head up by the forehead. Her other blade came diving in to open his exposed jugular. His blood spilled out on the mud in crimson gouts. She said, in his ear, "Thanks for bringing me back my knife."

An uproar clamored around her and she stood, dagger pointing at all the bandits surrounding her. The point of it swept toward any who dared step toward forward. A dangerous smile filled her face with a malicious light.

Solas chewed his lip and whispered, "Now get out of there."

She feinted toward the crowd one more time, then dashed for the fence. With one big roar of outrage, they streaked after her, weapons ready to plunge into her flesh and spill her life.

Solas scrambled out to the end of the branch, hand stretching out over the wall. The Herald flew up the side of the stable and ran along its roof. Then she leapt-

Her eyes, merry with battle joy, found his just as his hand closed around her left wrist. They stole his breath, how fiercely they glowed. The mark flared, shooting tendrils of green fire up his sleeve.

Swinging her legs like an acrobat, her momentum carried her up and over the wall. Solas let go so she could land on the grassy field outside the compound. Then he flipped out of the tree himself and chased her to where Bull and Blackwall waited at the gate. Two corpses lay near, guards the two warriors must have already incapacitated.

With a wheezing chuckle, the Herald slid the last few feet and said to them, "Your turn."

The first of the bandits poured through the gate only to fall to Blackwall and Bull's timed, alternating strikes. Bull laughed and reprimanded the waves of enemies, "See? This is why you build _two_ gates."

She dropped into a boneless crouch and leaned on the fence, head rolling back, cradling her injured extremity. "Fucking dogs."

"Are you alright?" said Solas, hunkering down next to her. He took her hand and winced, noting the many puncture wounds on the back and palm. Blood welled out of these holes and streaked down to her elbow, dropping in stringy lines to the ground.

"Nothing some elfroot won't fix." She pointed to their pile of belongings just out of arm's length.

"Even healing potions cannot do miracles." Solas reached out and yanked her pack close, pulling out a flask. He handed it to her. "Cassandra is right. You _do_ take too many risks."

"Shall I stay in Haven in a glass box, only to be deployed 'in case of rifts or rioting?' Stored in the armory? Like a ballista?" She snorted, mostly closed eyes glittering at him between her full lashes. Then she said, soft as a breeze, "You would take away what small joys I have left, would you, Solas?"

He froze, then said, after a long pause, "No. I would not."

She patted his hands where they wound cotton over her wounds. "Good."

"Job's done, Herald," said Blackwall, walking out of the gate. His armor was red from the knee down. "Some stragglers didn't want to come out, so we had to go in there to get them."

With a grimace, she stood. "Let's get out of this place and back to Haven."

"When I first came this way, Scout Harding gave me reports of Grey Warden sightings in the area …." Blackwall's words trailed off in the face of a three-way scowl. He cleared his throat and said, sheepish, "I suppose it can wait. You've all been in the field for weeks. We'll probably come through the area again."

The Herald sighed. "We'll walk back to camp and get our mounts. Time to go home."

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for the short chapter. There wasn't a natural break in the next bit for a loooong time. lol. Anyway, as always I appreciate the reviews, critiques and whatnot yous guys have been throwing my way. Now I must go to ao3 and upload there as well. Til next time!**


	8. Chapter 8

Not a box this time, though Solas expected it when he'd heard the light scuffle of feet outside his door.

Opening the door, he peered out into the afternoon haze. As before, no hide nor hair of any sort of messenger. Just a simple paper rectangle on his doormat. He bent, picked it up and cracked the seal.

Just three scrawled words-

* * *

LUK BHIND U

* * *

He spun and there, reclining on his bed lay the Herald, fingers laced behind her head, eyes closed. As though she'd been napping there for hours.

Solas shook his head and said, "Yes. Yes. Commendable stealth. Now, to what do I owe this unexpected, albeit amusing, violation of my privacy?"

Her stormy eyes opened, a twinkle of mischief making them dance. She swung her wrapped feet off the bed and sat up. "I'm hiding."

"Hiding?" Solas queried, with a dry smile. He closed his door and leaned his back on it, head tilting. "Hiding from whom?"

"The big three … and Cassandra."

"I assume this is about seeking aid from the rebel mages and templars?"

"Yes. And they want me to be the tiebreaker," said she, sighing in exasperation. Her hands raked through her tangled locks.

"They are split evenly then." Not really a question.

"In the most predictable way. Cullen and templars, always. Cassandra trusts steel more than anything, especially magic. Leliana is a mage apologist, and Josephine, well, I think she just enjoys symmetrical opposition." Her palms came together, pressing, pushing, going nowhere. Then, the Herald scrubbed at her face with both hands.

Solas let out a soft breath, trying to balance his negative feelings about the remark 'mage apologist' and the strange poetic beauty of the phrase 'symmetrical opposition.' After a moment, he said, "And you? Where do you stand?"

"Huh," she grunted. "That's the big question, isn't it. The one I've been asked over and over since the day that damn Breach opened, in one way or another."

"I cannot help but notice how _that_ is not really an answer."

"Where do I stand? I'll tell you, it _feels_ a lot like neck-deep in shit water and the tide is rising." A strange look came over her face, something far more open and vulnerable than he'd ever seen there before. Something like panic. She looked up at him then and said, "I could … use some advice."

He blinked in surprise. "You would take _my_ advice? Now, after literally months of ignoring everything I say?"

She stood, fast and abrupt. Her face went blank, vallaslin standing out in sharper relief against skin that had gone pale. "If you want to withhold, just say so."

The Herald made to brush by him and out the door. He halted her by stepping in her path and holding his hands up. He found he did not want this … moment of honesty to end. Not yet. "No, I am just … surprised."

Solas smiled to put her at ease and she stepped back, still wary. Unsure, she shuffled a little in place, then turned to lean a hip on his desk. Her eyes dropped to wander over his papers, his drawings. Her long fingers traced over a sketch of a waterfall. One they'd passed in the Hinterlands. The tiniest of smiles curled her lip.

"The mages," he said.

She started at the sudden pronouncement, snatching her fingers back as though burnt.

With hidden amusement, Solas elucidated, "You ask my advice which to pursue first? The mages. They will _most_ certainly be able to channel their power to the mark so the Breach can be sealed. Not to say the templars would not, but even I am not sure how their ability to nullify magic will interact with the forces involved. It may, in fact, counteract our efforts."

Relief shone her eyes, quickly damped as she forced it down and away. "That … that helps. Thank you."

The Herald reached for the door handle. He let her, stepping out of the way this time. But before she could actually open it, something stirred Solas to hold it closed with one hand. She turned her back to the wood and peered sidelong at him in question.

He whispered, "Will you not tell me your name, _da'len?_ "

"In trade for your advice?" she said, chin firming, eyes flashing.

His mouth twisted in acrimony. What low opinion she must have of him. "Of course not. My advice is always free and available to you. I just-"

A heavy knock reverberated against his palm. They both froze. The Herald's eyes widened. The knock came again, along with a deep voice calling, hesitant, "Solas? Are you in there?"

Solas leaned close to the door and said, "Yes, Commander. What can I help you with?"

"I'm, uh, looking for the Herald. Um, Alas. Is she in there with you?"

Her eye begged him for reprieve. For secrets kept and collusion. Amused, he smiled and said, "I do not know. Let me look around."

"... Look around?" muttered Cullen.

Fury mixed with panic in what small part of her face he could see out of the corner of his eye. Her fingers came up to tangle at the fabric of his tunic around his neck. How she must want to choke him to death. Or give him a firm shake.

After leaving her to dangle for several heartbeats, Solas called through the door, "No. I do not see 'Alas' anywhere in my very clean cottage."

"Really? I swear I thought I heard voices."

"I'm working on a difficult translation. Speaking aloud sometimes speeds the process." The soft puff of her warm breath at the base of his throat started to distract him. His eye drew sideways to focus on her parted, full lips only to skitter away. He swallowed.

"Say, could you possibly open this door? I feel rather silly talking to wood," Cullen said, feet shuffling.

"I would like nothing better, Commander, but I am not …," he began, then stalled as her hands smoothed on his chest, no longer threatening to strangle. Only alarm. Which they did so well. He stammered with tongue suddenly dry as bone, "I-I am not decent."

"Oh. _Well_ ," said a clearly flustered Cullen. Then his footsteps receded. "I will leave you to it then."

Only when he stepped back did he realize how he'd nearly crushed her against the door with his body. Her hands, palms out, still raised in the air, as though warding him off. The Herald's eyes seemed strangely bright as they watched him, the faintest pink flush on her cheeks.

His face felt inordinately warm. He hoped it did not show. Heat coiled low in his belly. He averted his gaze. "I believe he's gone."

Tentative and slow, she breathed, "Solas … do you-?" She stopped, then shook her head, hard. Whatever thing she'd been about to ask she swallowed back into herself. "Nevermind …."

A long awkward moment happened, with neither of them looking at the other. Then she said, "You're a good liar."

"I was not lying. I _am_ working on a difficult translation," he said, relieved to be back on familiar ground. He slid into his chair and showed her the ancient Tevene manuscript and the parchment with his notes. "It would help if I actually knew ancient Tevene, but this part here is in archaic elvhen, so I am, hm, extrapolating from what context clues I have found so far."

She listened with tilted head, looking over his shoulder at his work. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see how her gaze kept darting over to study his face. Her close presence at his back made his skin feel tight and tingly.

"But you did lie. About the second part," she said, soft and low at his ear. "You _are_ a decent man."

His heart sped up, thumping against his ribs. Fighting to contain a wealth of unwise emotion, both good and bad, he took a sharp breath. Without looking around, he said, just this side of snappish, "I did not lie."

The Herald pulled away, standing straight with a jerk. No, he would not look, though pained confusion pulsed through the air between them. Solas made himself cold to it and picked up his stylus, dipped it and scratched out a few mistranslations he hadn't spotted before.

His stiff lips parted around severe words he tried to force himself to condone, "Please, do not let me detain you. I'm sure you have plenty to do. And if you don't, _I_ do." He pointed at the door.

Unable to help himself, he did look then. Her countenance …. Blank, empty. No, not just empty. Dead. Her grey eyes did not blink, did not even sparkle with a hint of life. Then her face turned away from him and she left without a word. Without a sound.

Solas never wished more in his long, miserable life to unsay something. Anger would have been better. Hate, even. Anything but that dreadful … acceptance.

No. It was better this way. Let her stay away now. He'd let her get too close. Too interesting.

Too real.

If hurting her would fix it, would help him continue on his path, then so be it. He rubbed at his chest. The sting there that refused to subside mocked him.

Picking himself up, he flung himself on his bed, eyes closed. He chased the sanctuary of the Fade, but it eluded him. A scent wafted up from his collar. Lye, lilac and elfroot. And rich, dark earth. Not surprising, since she stopped to harvest every interesting plant in sight. And some that had no use he knew of.

The texture of cloth against his nose and mouth made him realize his hands had brought the tunic closer for him to smell. Ashamed, he let it drop. Then stripped it off and threw it.

The tunic crumpled in the corner of the cottage, radiating disapproval of his harsh treatment.

Dropping his head back onto his pillow, Solas sighed. The Fade reached back for him this time and he fell into its soothing embrace-

 _He found himself in a strange place. Not where he usually came to when dreaming in Haven. The bright, flapping cloth and carved wood of many Dalish aravels surrounded him, with shades of the People dancing to and fro. So many of the People gathered in one spot. It must be Arlathvhen, the great meeting of the Clans._

 _One shade grabbed him by the hands and spun him, calling blessings of the elvhen pantheon on him. Another handed him the memory of sweet berry wine. Solas drank to be polite, though it hardly had a taste._

 _Then screaming disrupted their gaiety. The Dalish fled, from what he could not see as yet. At the edge of the gathering, a dark presence curled out of the woods with tendrils of ebon fog. A group of leaders emerged from the teeming, frightened masses of elves. The Firsts, with all their Seconds in their shadows. Brandishing staff and sword, they formed a line at the camp boundary. One, hair glittering like frost, shouted, "Show yourself!"_

 _Two silhouettes made themselves known, one tall, one tiny. He focused on the second, because she seemed realer than anything else here._

 _An elven girlchild, barely out of the cradle, blue-grey eyes huge in the kind of terror only children know, naked but for some rags. And at her side? Solas peered, but his eyes could not pierce the anima of whatever tall ..._ thing _held tight to the little girl's hand. It remained a dark and hungry spectre, in shades of corrupted black and roiling, ruinous purple._

 _They both stood just out of arrow's reach, silent, as though waiting._

 _For ages, the Clans stared and hissed and muttered ugly things of fear and hate. The Firsts all raised their staffs high. The one who'd spoken before bellowed, "Begone, demons!"_

 _Unleashing their fury, the Dalish gave one big cry and threw rock, shot arrow, slung magic, but to no avail, for the two figures vanished before the first stone even struck dirt._

 _Eyes narrowed, Solas watched the whole puzzling scene play out. He had the impression that it had happened more than once, dozens of times, with different players but the same script. He wondered what it meant._

 _Why would he see it now?_

 _His mind turned to the Herald. Had she left this impression in his cottage? In his bed? If so, what did it mean? Was this a memory of hers?_

 _He willed himself into the woods, looking for the pair, or evidence of where they might have gone. Nothing. Then the formless chaos of the Fade swirled around him and showed him a new scene._

 _The child, same as before only slightly older, could just be glimpsed through the curtain of some low-hanging moss. The demonic presence lay supine on the ground before her, running long, shriveled fingers through her hair, humming a discordant song. The girl wept, stringy black hair in her eyes, sobbing words he could only hear some of-_

" _Don't want it. Please no," she wailed, little hands clawing at herself. "Not me. Not me."_

 _From where he witnessed, Solas could feel the demon's will wavering. Its need to have some form of payment for whatever the girl asked of it standing in the way of granting it. But the girl quite literally had nothing to give, only the thing she wanted locked away and forgotten. Solas knew this in the bone-deep way dreams sometimes impart information in a flash. He drew closer._

 _The demon thought and thought, until it said, soft and sweet, unearthly, "Ma da'len. I can do what you ask, but I must go away to do it."_

" _No, mamae!" she gasped, grasping at the demon as though it meant to vanish right there._

" _You must do something for me in exchange," it whispered, running its desiccated hands under the girl's jaw to lift it up. "First, when I am gone, you must go to the People and tell them you have destroyed me. Take my maggot-riddled heart as proof. They will accept you then. This is not for you, but for the one that bound me."_

 _The girl crumpled, a sad tangle of starved limbs and rounded belly. The demon pulled her into its lap and crooned a sorrowful, broken melody. It then said, "This body is nearly dust anyway. I cannot go on. Now, for your bargain, are you ready to hear?"_

 _She nodded, spending tear after tear. The demon bent its mouth to her ear and whispered. Straining, Solas still could not hear._

" _I will. I will." The girl sniffled, dribbling mucus._

 _Then the demon dropped its head back to the ground and expelled a long, foul breath. It dispersed itself on the wind, black fog swirling and flowing around the girl, then up and away._

 _The girl howled in grief, clutching at the empty corpse, mostly rags and bones and skin. Solas watched her cry her pain into the uncaring sky until she couldn't continue for the hoarseness of her throat. And still her shoulders shook._

 _And kept shaking with silent sobs as the child opened the cadaver's rotten coat and thrust her little hand through the parchment skin there, all the way up to the elbow. Three sharp tugs and the girl pulled a black, spongy mass free, ichor coating and dripping down her arm. She stood, swiping her other arm across her sodden, bereft face._

 _The face of empty acceptance. Surrender._

 _She turned it into the wind and walked the shrouded wood. Solas wanted to follow, but some force kept his feet rooted._

 _A chill crawled up his spine like spiders. The weight of something's terrible gaze fell over him, sinister and murderous. It filled the world with dread, horror undying. And the intent that he, the intruder, must cease to be._

 _Solas turned this way and that, determined to meet whatever it was and see it true._

 _A shrieking blast of wind came out of nowhere and picked him up like a fallen leaf. Solas spun over and over. He reached for branches, but they flowed through his hands like mist. With nothing to shape it, the Fade swirled and churned and he, lost at the heart of it, could only twist and fight._

 _Finally, he took the only exit he could think of. He-_

woke up.

Sitting upright in his bed, he panted. Sweat glistened on his heaving chest. He fell back and brought a trembling hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He couldn't recall the last time a dream had left him so shaken.

Never before had something in the Fade threatened him in such a way, either. It and the spirits that dwelled within it were reflections of ideas. The only danger the one you brought with you. He did not fear spirits, so why did it, or they, try to provoke fear in him?

Strange.

But not as strange as the pieces of story he'd gleaned. A lost child in the company of a demon?

How?

Why?

Questions that plagued him through the night. He'd doze off only to wake to the memory of that child's scream ringing through his heart. So mournful. So full of loss and love.

Staring at the ceiling, he barely heard the knock at his door. Solas stood and went to answer, almost hoping she'd come back so he could ask her.

The fresh-faced recruit saluted him in the early morning light, and thrust a message forward.

Brow wrinkling, Solas took the proffered note. The soldier saluted again and about-faced to march off down the rise.

He read-

* * *

Ser Solas,

The Blessed Herald of Andraste has asked that you please meet her at the gate after equipping yourself for the journey to Redcliffe.

Josephine

* * *

He clicked his tongue at the terseness of the letter. It lacked all the opulence of the last. Which spoke of haste. Had something happened to make the situation more urgent?

Readying himself, Solas tossed the note into the fire. And then he strode forth, determined to find answers.

* * *

 **A/N: Well, I figured since the last chapter was so short, I'd upload this one early. Hope it pleases. So, the mystery deepens. MWAHAHAHAHA and such and things. Curious Solas is curious. Mm, mm mmmm. Til next time, everybody!**


	9. Chapter 9

" _Lethallan!"_

Blinded, he stumbled back. The flash of light faded and she, the amulet and that Tevinter mage were … just _gone_.

Obliterated.

The stone where she stood lay scorched and melted. Numb, Solas took one step then another, hand outstretched. A feeling expanded in his chest, larger and louder until he could barely breathe. So big and terrible he couldn't even name it. Didn't want to name it.

Because naming it made it real.

Because naming it made him free to fully feel it.

Then the sudden taste of ozone filled the air, along with the texture of the fabric of the real rippling somewhere close at hand. Cassandra and Varric, near foaming at the mouth with hate and the need for vengeance, started to charge past Solas to leap upon Alexius. Solas held them back at the last second, just as blinding white light filled the world again, with the soft 'whoomph' of expanding air.

The Herald appeared once more, striding out of a brilliant vortex of green and grey smoke toward Alexius with manic murder in her eyes.

The Tevinter at her back said, "You'll have to do better than that!"

Alexius fell back before her slow and deadly advance. Then, face falling in hopelessness, he collapsed onto his knees and looked up at the Herald.

Her knife came out of its scabbard so fast it seemed to just appear in her hand. The fallen magister turned his face from the coming blow.

"Herald!" said Dorian, fast stepping around her to get between them. "Alexius is defeated. His time magic useless. Is killing him really necessary?"

At this, she did pause. Though the knife did not lower an inch, her lips pulled back and away from bared teeth. _And is that … tears?_ Falling from her reddened, unblinking eyes?

The Tevinter mage said, voice full of entreaty, "Is this justice?"

Her crazed gaze with their pupils mere pinpricks latched onto his. Dorian blanched and took a half-step back. Her voice sounded strangled as it slipped out from between jaws held shut, "No. _This_ is mercy. If this were justice, I'd take his boy, too. I'd kill _every_ thing precious to _him_!"

It ended as a roar, that echoed throughout the whole hall.

Dorian's mouth opened and shut several times. Then the mage took one more step fully out of the way. The magister's son made to move forward, a piteous plea on his tongue, "Dorian-"

"Felix. No." Alexius gestured his son back with a hand.

"Your father's right. Don't interfere," said Dorian, pulling Felix back by the arm. Bitter disappointment and sorrow pinched the mage's face as he looked on.

Solas, still reeling from her reappearance, watched the Herald as she took one fateful step after another. He peered close at her hand, saw it start to shake, the point of her blade wavering.

Then she froze.

From the way her muscles leaped and twitched, the way she'd start the killing blow only to abort it, she fought an internal battle of gargantuan proportions. The tableau froze for a long time.

She blinked. Her gaze flitted around to everyone present. Sanity returned to her expression, stealing in to take the rabid edge away from her aquiline features.

Her dagger fell out of suddenly loose fingers, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. It clanged to the stone floor. The Herald stared at it for the longest time before straightening and spinning on one heel.

Cassandra, Varric and he stood stock still as she walked past them. She said, over her shoulder, "Take him."

Solas turned to watch the Herald leave, her hunched shoulders telling the story of inner turmoil. Behind him, Cassandra ordered Alexius to his feet while Varric, Dorian and Felix conversed in hushed tones. Leliana's agents swarmed back and forth, collecting codices and intel. They took Alexius into custody.

Seeing the present situation well in hand, Solas walked after their Herald. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he looked for her. She sat nearby, peeling an apple with her eating knife. Her eye slid to the side and marked him, but she said nothing.

He sat next to her on the stone steps of Redcliffe Castle. Wordless, she passed him a slice. He tasted it, enjoying the sweetness, the crispness. She passed him another when he'd finished the first.

They ate in silence for a long time before she finally spoke, "Can you kill a man for something he hasn't done … _yet_?"

Solas gave the question his full consideration. "Possibly. If you believe him still capable of accomplishing whatever it is. It would be tactically sound to remove him so he then cannot."

"No. I saw it. It happened. But now, it hasn't. And it probably won't. But …." She gave a hiss and looked at him. That mad anger still lurked in there, under a sick and hollow grief that flared when she locked gazes with him. "Some _when_ , it still _happened._ "

Quiet fell between them again, with only their munching to punctuate it. Again, she broke it first, "We'll have the mages, now. Sooner we close the Breach, the sooner I can leave."

He frowned at the odd dropping sensation in his gut. Solas looked at her in alarm, but only let himself say, "Back to the Dalish?"

At this, she visibly winced. "No."

"I am not as certain as you that the Inquisition will no longer be needed after the Breach is gone. After all, we still do not know who this 'Elder One' is, nor have solid proof other than Alexius's word that he was behind the attack on the Conclave." Solas hummed.

"I don't care. My job is the Breach and once it is done, I will go. The others can root out the why's and how's well enough without me." She shivered and threw the apple core aside. "I'm tired of being a pawn. I want …."

Solas waited, but she never finished. Instead, he said, gentle and coaxing, "Why don't you want to go back to your Clan, _da'len?_ … Is it because of the demon?"

Her shocked face turned to him. Then, that shock transformed into a riot of differing, vehement emotions. Terror covering the whole like a corrosive patina.

She stood and strode away, at very nearly a run. With barely a pause, she flung herself astride her mare. The Herald shot him one more desperate and lost look before kicking her mount into a sprint. The horse tore over the open fields, right past a large contingent of armed men marching along the main road. A crowned head turned to follow her progress.

"What did you say to her?" demanded Cassandra, moving up beside the apostate.

Solas just shook his head, feigning ignorance to hide his true perturbed and worrisome feelings.

"She probably just needs to blow off some steam, " Varric said, collapsing his crossbow and sliding it into its baldrick. "Should we go after her, is the real question."

"None of you saw," Dorian said, fingers smoothing over his well-kempt mustache. "Your Herald of Andraste had to leave good people behind to die in the worst ways imaginable, just so we could have a chance to undo the evil Alexius sought to bring about. Give her a moment to process."

Cassandra wrenched her gaze from the Herald's vanishing speck on the horizon to the incoming group of soldiers. She said, in a soft exclamation of dismay, "Oh, sweet merciful Andraste, it's the king of Ferelden."

"Not good with royalty, Seeker? You could let me do the talking," said Varric, ingratiating smile already on his face.

"You breathe so much as a word, Varric, and I will do more than just put a dagger through your _book_ ," Cassandra ground out from between clenched teeth. "Why did she have to leave _now_?"

Varric and Solas looked at each other. The elf could see the same troubled thoughts stamped on the dwarf's face. Solas turned to the Seeker. "Surely, you can make one or two decisions without her?"

Cassandra's gaze turned to him, sharp with annoyance. Until her regard turned inward, then chagrin sprouted and grew. She said, "I suppose the burden has been heavy. Fine, I will speak to the king."

Solas stood by as the Seeker went forth and dropped to one knee. Famed King Alistair gestured that she rise.

The apostate listened to their exchange with half an ear as his eye found the horizon, searching. He couldn't see her any more, but he could almost feel her. The magic of the Anchor pulled and stretched between them, a tether inseverable.

"Do you really think she'll come back?" said a sudden voice at his shoulder. He turned to see Dorian smiling a friendly smile back at him.

Solas frowned. "She has no choice."

The Tevinter huffed a small, bitter laugh. "And here I thought slavery was frowned upon in the south."

"No one is ever completely free," said Solas. "Duty will draw her back."

"Speaking of which, I find myself in the awkward position of feeling … obligated. To your Herald." Dorian cleared his throat. "Do you think my presence at … wherever the Inquisition calls home would be, um, _entirely_ objectionable?"

"I doubt you'll stand out among our band of misfits. I am an apostate. Varric there, though full of wit and charm, is a rogue and author of great infamy." Solas hummed in amusement. He nodded at the flustered Seeker a few feet away. "Even stoic, honor-bound Cassandra is charged with gravest heresy by the Chantry."

"Oh, well, I'll feel right at home then."

"Someone must be talking about me, because my ears are _buuurning_ ," Varric said, as he sidled away from blushing, stammering Cassandra and King Alistair.

"We were just discussing the collection of oddities the Inquisition seems to have acquired," explained Solas, with a circling gesture indicating himself, the dwarf and the Seeker.

"I was thinking of adding myself to it," said Dorian, lips pursed.

"Shit, yeah. The more the merrier," Varric said. "Along with the usual grab-bag, when you sign up you'll be issued a nickname, courtesy of me. Expect it to arrive sooner or later."

"I can hardly wait." Sarcasm dripped from the man's words.

"It is done. The mages will return to Haven with us," Cassandra said, striding away from the royal party. The king and his retinue entered Redcliffe Castle and shut the portcullis behind them, a pointed hint for the Inquisition to leave.

"Partners? Or prisoners?" Solas queried, barely keeping the edge out of his voice.

"Against my better judgement, … partners," said she, grimacing.

His brows raised in pleasant surprise. "That's … not what I have come to expect from you, Seeker."

She sighed and ran a hand over her hair. "I only did what I thought …." Then, she hesitated.

Solas finished the thought for her, " … the Herald would do?"

The Seeker blushed. "Yes. I see what you mean. We have all been far too dependent on Alas to make _all_ the decisions. I forget that she was just thrown into this."

Dorian laughed. "Weren't we all?"

 _Weren't we all, indeed._

* * *

Six days back from Redcliffe and still no sign of her. Counting the week of travel to get back, that made for nearly a month of her absence from the parish of her followers. The whole Inquisition was in an uproar. Solas could hardly venture forth from his cottage without seeing people scurrying about, whispering fearful gossip-

"What if she never returns?"

"What if she's dead?"

"Maker preserve the Herald. Bring her back to us."

Until now, he never thought times could get darker. The despair choked the air, it laid so thick about Haven.

Everyday, the advisors came to him, probing for answers. Asking if he knew where she might go. He didn't want to think about why they thought _he'd_ know. He kept it vague, but still they poked and prodded-

"Anything you can think of that would help us find her, Solas," said Leliana, running one of her hands over his lute. She stood in his cottage, in her demure hood and mail. "Maybe a-a scrying spell or something."

"You do not know what you're asking. Doing such a thing involves purposely tearing holes in the Veil. It attracts spirits in droves," he said with a sigh. "You would have me open the Veil in the middle of Haven?"

"No, of course not. I'd hoped perhaps you could search her out in the Fade-"

"What makes you think I have not already tried?" He ran his hand over his face. He had tried, if only to talk to her, much as he'd been loathe to invade her dreams. She'd proven most cunning at evading him in the Beyond.

Leliana sagged in disappointment. "Well, I am at my wit's end. My spies report no sightings, nothing. If she doesn't return, then we're going to have to come up with one hell of a contingency plan."

He said, "She will return."

She watched him for a moment, fingers idly playing over the strings of the lute making a soft susurration. "You seem very sure. You make me believe it. But what if she can't return?"

Solas contemplated. One woman alone in the world as it is now, she'd be vulnerable no matter how skilled. She has more foes than she can count. Some she is not even aware of. The Anchor makes her a beacon, a target.

He'd know if she died. The power in her marked hand would shake the whole of the Fade if she'd passed into it. But she could be somewhere out there, injured ….

What if this Elder One, whose name Solas would not even think, finds her first?

Standing, Solas walked to his gear and started donning it.

"What are you doing?" asked Leliana, brows drawing down over her pert nose. She stood away from his wall.

"Doing as you ask." Solas slipped extra lyrium and potions in his pack, padding them with his extra shirt. His staff slipped with easy familiarity into its baldrick at his back. "I will go find her."

"Didn't you hear me? My spies haven't seen her."

"Perhaps I know some things your spies do not?" He framed it like a question, but it fell on the air like a statement of fact.

"Well, I'll get our people together. They can all help-"

Solas interrupted, "No. If I am to do this, I will do it my way. Alone."

"But-" She must have seen the obstinance on his face, for she stopped with a sigh. "I suppose at this point there is nothing else we can do."

"Good to know you place such trust in me," he said, wry as mocking winter.

She eyed him for a moment, then smiled sweet poison and nodded. He knew that smile spelled dire things for him if he didn't succeed. Leliana folded her hands behind her back and sauntered out of his cottage, turning at the door to say, "Dareth shiral, Solas."

He smiled at her courtesy, and near perfect pronunciation. "Ma serannas, Spymaster."

At the stable, another person confronted him. With the reins of a … red hart in his glove. Solas tilted his head to look up at the Commander in question. Then over to the buck, who snorted and pawed the ground.

A red tinge appeared in Cullen's cheeks and he thrust the lead into Solas's hands. "Fastest we have. Leliana already, um, informed us."

"How did you manage to capture a hart, Commander?" Solas patted the buck's neck, whispering words of comfort to the beast. He calmed under the mage's hand, losing the fret and worry that made his eyes roll so.

"I, uh, thought she'd like him. You know, the whole Dalish … thing," he trailed off, eyes skipping here and there. His forefingers pressed together at the tip in an endearing sort of shyness

Solas found he could not even be angry at the unintended racism in the face of such. Though it did disturb him to see Cullen's blatant affection for the Herald. He sublimated the sudden dropping in his guts with sheer will and said, "I am sure she will."

"We haven't had a chance to craft some tack-"

"It won't be required." Then Solas swung up onto the hart's saddleless back and arranged the reins across one thigh. He would not need them, instead lacing the fingers of one hand into the short, tuftlike mane at the hart's neck.

Cullen touched Solas's ankle and said, urgent, "Please find her. Quickly."

"I shall. For all our sakes." With a tightening of his knees, the hart surged forward in a bound. Muscle memory kicked in by the third stride and Solas relaxed into the bouncy gait, moving his body in smooth coordination.

As he rode by, he saw many hopeful faces at the open gate. He smiled and leaned, pressing with heel and toe to signal the hart to turn for the road. He brought his magic to bear to speed the animal's hooves, then said to the hart, in elvhen, _"South, brother. Far, far to the south."_

Yes, he'd find her. Hopefully, he'd find her whole.

* * *

 **A/N: Yep, I think this 4-5 day update thing is what's gonna happen. Damn my eager-y-ness. I just can't seem to make myself wait a full week. Oh, well. As always, comments, reviews, critiques are welcome. As are, hmmmmm, speculations. looool. Let me know what you think.**

 **P.S. If the timeframes seem weird, it's because I'm stretching them out. Larger distances, more travel time. More TIME period. lol. I'm not sure yet just how long in 'Thedosian time' this will take yet. Years? We'll see. I'm trying to keep it consistent, so if yous guys spot any INconsistencies, be sure to let me know. XD**


	10. Chapter 10

The hart did not care for swamps. Nor the undead that pulled themselves from the muck to give shambling chase. Solas ignored them, for the most part, unless they stood in his path. Then a few blasts from his staff usually moved them out of the way.

A stone plinth revealed itself in the mist ahead, with a tall figure standing next to it, maul slung over one shoulder.

Solas slowed his mount to a walk as he approached, calling a cautious greeting, "Well met."

The Avvar, as Solas could see now, turned but did not charge as the mage expected. A thoughtful face peered at him from beneath the tall man's bird-like mask. "Hail, lowlander. What brings such as ye to this unwholesome place?"

"I … am searching for someone," said Solas.

"Ah, the little one. Female of your race, is it not?" The Avvar scratched his chin and yawned, going back to staring at the stone beacon.

"You have seen her then?" The apostate found it hard to hide the eagerness in his voice, the tightening of his hands into claws on his thighs.

"Yes. She threatened to gut me, the fiery little thing. Until she realized I was not of the Hand's minions."

"The 'Hand?"

"Hand of Korth, bratling son of Movran. A sorrier youth I have never known." The Avvar chuckled. "I would not play bulwark to the boy, so I let her on. Doubtless, she has found him already. And he may now regret his challenge to her. Regret the taking of her people."

Solas absorbed this with a grave frown. "Where was she headed?"

The tall man tilted his head. "Ye would stop her? She'll not thank ye. She's on the bloodhunt. Didn't seem to matter whose. Mayhap yours will suffice."

A biting chill ran up Solas's spine. "Nevertheless, I must find her."

The Avvar pointed to the west. "Stay on the path. My people have taken the holt at the end of it for themselves."

"My thanks. I am Solas and I am in your debt."

"Say not such a thing to me. Those words have power among mine," said the man with a grin.

"And mine," Solas asserted, holding his gaze with conviction.

"Well, then. I am Amund, Skywatcher. And I will hold you to your debt. In the fullness of time." Amund nodded in respect and said, "One last thing. Your Herald. She looked a mite poorly."

"Farewell," said the apostate, urging his hart to run, worry hastening his need.

Undead filled recently emptied campsite after campsite. He galloped past them with a cursory look. Soon, a long bridge loomed out of the fog, with an open portcullis at the end, yawning huge like the maw of some ancient horror.

The dead clustered at the end, bumping into each other and moaning. Solas clicked a command to the hart. The buck lowered his antlers with a high, whistling bellow. The charge scattered the walking corpses in front of them. Solas let loose a mindblast for the rest. The dead flew back into the water at each side of the bridge.

Ducking under the spiked entryway, Solas pulled the hart short and looked around. She had to be close. The Anchor's resonance filled the air like siren song.

Fresh bodies littered the stone floor, strewn every which way. Solas dismounted and picked his way among them, noting the clean cuts, the precise strikes to vital organs. Up and through another gate he walked, hart close behind.

Then he saw her unmistakable silhouette, lying on the ground collapsed atop another very dead Avvar, larger than the rest. Her left hand still curled around the handle of her dagger, which stuck out of the dead man's chest.

Solas ran to her, sliding the last few feet to kneel at her side. His hands hovered, unsure just how hurt she might be. "Herald?"

She gave a low groan and stirred, hand falling from her knife.

He, with all the care he could muster, turned her into the curl of one arm. His other hand pushed her hair out of her face. Drool coated the one side of her face and her eyes fluttered open, weak and unfocused. "Wuh?"

"Herald? Lethallan _?_ " Worried, he scanned her for injuries. None of the blood on her seemed to be hers. But her flesh scalded him, and the two circles of bright red high on her cheeks did nothing to placate him. "Are you hurt?"

"Solassss?" Her left hand came up and patted his cheek, pushing his skin this way and that. She gained a little more sense and scowled. "'Course itzz you. It jus' haaad to be you."

A waft of strong alcohol found his nose and he looked down at her, in bewilderment and consternation. "Are you …. Are you _drunk_?"

She scoffed. "I'm _sick_. Drunk is just inci-inci-incidental."

Then he saw the ancient bottle of wine in her other hand, half empty and leaking all over the ground. It _stank_.

"Look wuh I found. Blackwall izz gonna be so _pissed_." She giggled and opened the bag at her waist to show him a dirty, folded rag and a book with a gryphon embossed on the front.

Frustrated, Solas started to gather her in his arms, being none too gentle.

She complained, "Whoa, whoa! Wut are you-?"

"Enough of this nonsense, _da'len!_ We're going back to Haven." He stood, noting how light she felt with concern, quickly eclipsed by more anger. He snatched the bottle out of her hand and threw it so hard it shattered.

"Hey! That was _my_ dragon piss!"

He looked around. "Where is your horse?"

"The swamp ate her." She squawked as he slung her over a shoulder, squirming and fighting.

"I swear by the Void, _da'len_ , that if you do not hold still, I will tie you to the hart for the whole journey back." Surprisingly, she listened, going limp. Solas deposited her on the beast's back, arranging her so she more or less sat upright.

The Herald pointed at a door off the courtyard. "We still gotta do-do the …."

With an exasperated huff and a flinging of hands to sky, Solas stalked over to the door and threw it open. Inside, half a dozen Inquisition soldiers stared back at him in shock. He spoke, sharp and abrupt, "You're free. Go to the basecamp and report in. Make sure you send a raven to Haven telling the Nightingale that the Herald saved you."

Amid shouts of elation and cries of 'Blessed be', the soldiers departed, all waving at the Herald, who waved back, though from the confusion on her face, she probably didn't know why she waved.

The ball of simmering impatience in his guts grew a little bigger as she grinned like a simpleton. Drawing his staff, he stomped toward the mount.

He leapt atop the hart in front of her, shooting her a terse, "Hold on tight. If you fall off, I might just leave you in the bog."

"Hold on to- _whuuu_?!" Her arms latched around his waist at the first surge forward. Solas could feel her heart hammering away between his shoulder-blades. She teetered and clutched, gasping like a fish out of water.

"Don't fight him! Lean _with_ me," he barked, drawing his knees a little tighter to compensate for her drag.

Through the misty dangers, they threaded. Passing the soldiers again as they trooped home. They called for their Herald, who bumped and jounced like a graceless sack of potatoes on the hart's croup.

Solas slowed once they passed the worst of the fens and growled, "Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed? How could you be so dense? How could anyone so clever be so stupid?"

The Herald grunted, "How c'n anyone so tall act so small?"

"What? That does not make any sense, _Herald_ ," Solace said, ire piqued.

"You know, ' _postate_. You know. Don' put on that act," she said, then snorted. Her speech became more cogent as fury burned away the alcohol. "You got a baaad case of miserliness. You give _nothin'_ of yourself, only-only shite that _sounds_ importan'."

"And _you_ are any different?" Solas turned halfway around and gripped both of her shoulders in his hands and gave her a little shake. " _What is your name?!_ "

Resentment poured out at him from her lambent, feverish eyes. Her mouth screwed closed, in belligerent denial of him.

Rage peaking, he let her go and swung back around before he did something deplorable, like strike her. No, he could never do that. From the cool air on his back, he knew she leaned away from him.

Untrusting. Faithless.

Deservedly so.

Shame pricked him, for shaking her. She was no child, to be reprimanded so. He spoke, slow and soft, "I … I am sorry, _lethallan_. I should never have touched you in anger."

Tense silence filled the whole bog.

"I - I … don't …," she whispered, so soft he could barely hear. "... Have one. A name, that is."

He froze, guts like heavy stones at the bottom of a seething well of guilt and regret. Yet, he could not stop himself from asking, "Then what is 'alas _?_ '"

"It is what I am called. The Lin'alas _._ "

 _Dirty blood._

How he wished the earth would open up to swallow him then. That he'd forced her to reveal to him so great a humiliation tore a hole right through his heart. His throat closed and his eyes stung.

A strike to his shoulder knocked him out of his spiraling thoughts and he whipped his head around to see her glaring at him from inches away. She said, cold, "I don't need your pity."

Then her arms curled around his waist again, snug and tight. Solas stilled in surfeit surprise. Her too-warm cheek nuzzled against his shoulder, and he tried to ignore how unsteady that made him feel.

The hart, sensing his uncertainty, bounced a little in place, nervous. The Herald huffed in annoyance and said, "I _am_ sick, though. If we don't camp soon, I _will_ vomit all over you."

* * *

 **A/N: Well. ...Weeelll. I had fun with this chapter. It's a little short, but packed with things and stuff. One of her secrets revealed at last. JUST ONE. mwahahahahahaha. Anyway, so there's a canon phrase 'len'alas' that supposedly means 'dirty child,' so I just replaced the one word. I don't really know if Elvhen words change meaning depending on the order in which they're placed other than small, simple nuances, but Project Elvhen has 'Alas'len' meaning 'earth-child.' But I needed the other, uglier one, so there's that. Please let me know if you liked it. I hope to have a longer chapter for yous guys next time. Cheers!**


	11. Chapter 11

All _seemed_ well, if one did not look close. And Solas had always looked close.

The Herald's return to Haven brought jubilation to the Inquisition's followers. Her followers.

She waved and smiled a strained smile to those who came up to touch her hands. Only he, astride the hart in front of her, could feel her sway and shudder with sickness.

Cullen stepped up and she slid off the mount into his arms, breaking away from him before the human could detect anything amiss, Solas noted. She batted off the Commander's questions after her wellbeing with her signature brusqueness.

Pulling the throng into her wake, the Herald stalked into the stronghold.

"So, you did it," said a voice at his knee.

Solas nodded, just a terse once.

"Where did you find her?" asked Leliana, who'd sidled up next the mount.

"Fallow Mire. She rescued some captured soldiers from the Avvar there."

The Spymaster hummed. "Alone?" Disapproval clung to her tone.

"I believe so," said the apostate, sliding down to the ground. He clicked his tongue at the buck, and, with a snort, the animal moved toward the waiting stablehands.

"She is reckless. Risking everything in a fit of pique-"

"Neither of us witnessed what truly happened in Redcliffe. If she truly saw the future as Dorian described it, then perhaps her 'pique' is more than a little justified."

"Time magic …. I can hardly find it credible. And people wonder why mages are feared." The human gave him a sidelong glance. "Could it have been an illusion? A trick?"

"It is possible," allowed he. Solas kept a frown off his face at her comment about mages and fear. "But do we want to dismiss it before giving it all due consideration?"

Leliana stroked her chin as she thought. Then she said, "No. If this Corypheus's aim is to destabilize the south, then assassinating Empress Celene would strike the most solid blow."

"I agree." Solas shifted his pack on his back as he started to walk into Haven. "In the meantime, you would do well to keep a close eye on her. She is not well."

"Not well?" she asked, concern wrinkling her brow. Her gaze turned up the hill where the crowd still gathered around their savior.

Solas found his own eyes wanting to drift that way and closed them instead. His feet knew the route to his cottage well enough. He needed solitude. Time to meditate in the Fade. Restore his balance and strength of purpose.

A messenger waited at his door this time, and saluted the approaching apostate. Taking the note from the man's hand, Solas tried to ignore the needling trepidation creeping upon him.

It unfolded in his hands and he read with sinking guts the hastily scrawled contents-

* * *

To Ser Solas,

Provisions are being prepared for a short journey to the Hinterlands. Please be ready upon the hour.

-J.

* * *

The muscles in his hand twitched. The note drifted to the frost-touched ground at his feet.

Perhaps she really did have a deathwish. Why did that fill him with such … frightful disquiet?

It took them six days at full gallop to get to the Crossroads. Six days of watching her pretend to not be ill. Her skin became almost translucent with pallor. It contrasted sharply with the fever spots high on her cheekbones.

"These poor idiots," commented the Tevinter riding next to him on a chestnut stud. When Solas turned to look, Dorian nodded to the villagers flanking the road, cheering for their Herald. The human continued, "Smack dab in the middle of all this chaos and death and they just _stay_ here."

"Where would they go?" retorted Solas. "Is there anything like _safety_ to be found? For anyone?"

Dorian sighed. "Perhaps not. But they have no walls here, no defenses to speak of."

As they passed a group of training soldiers, Solas said, "The Inquisition is here now. They keep the borders."

"Against demons? Against rifts and apostates and rogue templars and everything? And now this 'Elder One' chap," Dorian shot back. "What hope does mere steel have against such an array of supernatural woes?"

"Hope matters for more than you think, Dorian," said Blackwell, riding at their rear. Then he fell silent as they both turned to look at him.

"Such saccharine sentiment won't stop a demon from tearing your throat out," the Tevinter said.

"No, but hope may keep me going on for a bit longer, and give me a chance, however slim. Fear and despair would drag my old bones to the ground to wait for the blow to fall, if I let them." Blackwall sniffed.

"So it's really just a choice between a fast death and a slow one. Riiight," Dorian drawled, with a roll of his eyes.

Solas chuckled.

The Tevinter asked, "What?"

"Tis nothing." When the man's mouth pulled in consternation, Solas relented. "And they call _me_ the grim and fatalistic one."

Dorian's brows drew down, then smoothed as he smiled. "I suppose you have a point." Then he addressed himself, "Cheer up, Dorian. The sun's been up for hours and you haven't died yet. You haven't even gotten blood on your exquisite new coat."

A light coughing drew all their eyes to the front. The Herald's shoulders hunched and shook. Just around her slim waist, Solas could see how her tight grip on the gelding's reins had gone white-knuckled. Then one of her hands fell loose and fumbled at her wineskin. Her fingers paused at her pouches to free an odd yellowish chunk of resin the size of his thumb nail.

This she balled up and tossed in her mouth. The wine chased soon after it.

Frowning, Solas wanted to ask, but didn't. When the tense line of her shoulders eased, he reluctantly tried to dismiss it as some sort of medicine. She turned in her saddle and said to them, "Come on. The Witchwood's just ahead. We'll sort out these mages, then hit the templars at the river. We got to take care of them both so there isn't an imbalance of power."

Her eyes, wide with a sort of languid exuberance, skipped over them. Their grey a thin, steel-bright ring around the yawning black of her pupils. Unease gripped Solas again. The hart between his thighs snorted and danced sideways into Dorian's stud.

"Hyah!" the Herald shouted, kicking her mount into a gallop. Solas squeezed with his knees to send the hart after. The others trailed behind.

An eerie quiet filled this part of the Hinterlands, made even more surreal by the distant clash of arms to the west. Heavy dustings of magic lay thick on the air. He and Dorian exchanged many a look as they took down ward after ward. Even the Herald balked, slowing her steed's gallop to a walk.

A sweet singing tickled at Solas's inner senses and his head whipped toward the east. He knew that sound. "Herald. As I walked the Fade, I felt the presence of an intriguing artifact here in the Hinterlands. I believe it is not far."

She paused to pull out her map. Solas pulled up next to her to look over her shoulder. His brows drew up in surprise as he noted no words on it. No names to mark towns, rivers. Only tiny sketches of unique landmarks. X's for camps. Circles for areas of conflict. Some had a single slash through.

"Well?" she said, low and raspy, turning her face toward him. He could feel the abnormal warmth of her skin on his.

"You are not," he said, quietly.

"What?"

"You are not _well_ ," he reiterated. Lifting one hand, he put the back of it to her forehead. The skin there burned, hot as a furnace. "You should have stayed in Haven."

She shot him a dark sideways look. "Perhaps _you_ should have stayed in Haven."

Her tone said, _I should have_ left _you in Haven._

Bristling, Solas leaned back. "Yes. Dismiss a legitimate concern."

"Legitimate or not, your concerns are irrelevant. You are not my Keeper, nor am I your child." The Herald snatched the map away and folded it with quick, jerky movements. "You say 'lethallan' to me so easily. I am no kin to you."

"No. Kin of mine would know benign overtures from hostile. They would know friend from foe." Aware his voice had risen, he snapped off whatever else he might have said then, and glanced at their oblivious companions in the rear. Dorian and Blackwall conversed in low tones of their own.

The Herald thrust her left palm in his face. The Anchor flared, green and pulsing like a rapid, unsteady heartbeat. Her heartbeat. "Anchor. Mark. Mark. Anchor. All day, every day, that's all I hear. Do you know what 'mark' _sounds_ like to me?'"

Taken aback, Solas stared, silent.

"Target. Victim. Dupe. Sap. Sucker. Take your damned pick." She bared her teeth at him. "I'm the fucking fall guy here. The Mark. I'm just waiting for the knife."

He blinked, speechless.

She continued, hissing, "Will it come from the front? Or the back? Will they be cruel enough give it a twist? Blackwall was wrong. Hope, despair, fear. None of those matter. The blow _will still come._ I'm just trying to get something done before it finds me. And there's so much to get don-"

A long, wracking series of coughs interrupted her, shaking her whole body. Each broke off with a worrisome, shallow wheeze right at the end. She wiped her mouth with a shaking hand and, in turn, wiped the spittle on her dark trews.

But not before he saw the bright blossom of red at the corner of her mouth. Solas reached out again, but stopped short, arm dropping back into his lap. He looked away for a moment and said, in soft, mocking derision, "So, you and Andraste have that much in common, at least. Burdened with the onus of self-sacrifice."

She pulled back as though he'd slapped her, dilated pupils flashing intense displeasure and no little hurt at him. Her lips drew back and let him see clearly the red film coating her teeth. "Laugh then, flat-ear. Won't be the first to do so. Doubtless, won't be the last."

Guts churning in equal parts aggravation and guilt, he watched as she leaned over her horse's neck and bade it run.

No, he wasn't laughing. Least of all, at her.

 _None_ of it was funny.

* * *

When she finally tumbled, she did it with a grace that defied gravity. A simple mid-air spin, then a drop. Her expression reflected mild befuddlement before unconsciousness buried her under its heavy blanket.

One moment, Solas had kept a worried eye on her as she labored to move, to swing, to slice with any sort of skill. The next, she lay on the ground. He couldn't even tell if she still breathed.

Dorian shouted, "Herald!"

The Tevinter ran to her just as the last templar died, spitted on the end of Blackwall's longsword. The warrior scrambled over there as well. Solas stalked that way, keeping an eye out, unsure if they'd really gotten them all.

"Did an arrow get through?" said Blackwall, lifting her and turning her about, looking for injury.

"No. I don't think so," Dorian said, worry etching deep lines in his brow. "I made sure to keep a barrier on her the whole time. What with the way she was jumping all over the place."

"Maker, look at her. Pale as death. I knew she wasn't feeling well, but what-?"

Solas interrupted, "She's been ill since Fallow Mire."

Shocked, the two men looked at him. Then Dorian put a hand on her chest. Greenish light flowed from his palm into her flesh. The fierce concentration on his face belied the nervous chewing of his bottom lip. He gave a grunt of frustration and surprise. "I can't heal her. She's got a serious infection of the lungs, that I _can_ tell, but when I channel the power, it just sort of gets sucked away into nothing."

"Here. Let me." Solas knelt next to Dorian, and brought the full force of his healing magic to bear. He witnessed, confused, as the bright mana which should have gone straight to her illness diverted and flew in a contrary direction altogether. How bizarre. He shook his head and looked about. "We need to camp. Here is as good as anywhere."

Blackwall stood and peered around. "At least it's already set up for it. I'll go get the mounts."

Bustling to and fro for the next hour, they made her as comfortable as they could in her tent. Trapped in a fitful sleep, she muttered and cried out every time they jostled her as though just the brush of their hands caused torment.

"I don't understand it," said Dorian, running a hand through his mussed coiffure. Rarely so ruffled, the mage pinched the bridge of his nose.

"If you knew she was ill, Solas, then why did no one stop her from leaving Haven?" Blackwall demanded, looking at the apostate with a hard glint in his eye. By 'no one' he clearly meant Solas. Why didn't _Solas_ stop the Herald.

The elf returned that glint with a glare of his own. "Stop _her_? You know as well as I how she can be …." He did a helpless little flip of one hand.

"Stubborn," finished Dorian.

"Mule-headed," countered Blackwall.

Solas sighed. "Obstinate. Headstrong. Willful. Steadfast. …. Tenacious." He heard the note of admiration the second it crept into his voice, and struggled to dismiss it. "We can bandy about synonyms all night. It will get us nowhere."

Blackwall echoed his sigh. "Well, then. What do we do?"

The warrior looked at Dorian, who shrugged and said, "Don't look at me. I only just joined this insanity."

They both looked at Solas, who snorted. "The only thing we can do. Go home. If she hasn't woken by tomorrow, we ride for Haven. Hard."

They nodded agreement.

Solas turned and looked at the Herald, biting the inside of his cheek.

* * *

 **A/N: Jeez, Herald, this is another fine mess you've gotten yourself into. Crazy elfy wimmins. Anywho, that concludes another exciting chapter in the story of Alas, the Most Reluctant Hero There Ever Was. Hope you enjoyed it. Shoot me some feedback if it suits you.**


	12. Chapter 12

A day out, the convulsions started.

Worry hounded him. Was he pushing them too hard? But if he did not, how could he get her to the healers at Haven before the fever stole her away forever?

The Herald thrashed through the nights, sweating, screaming, and she lay still as the dead during each day's ride. Solas had to hold her in front of him on the hart, for she obviously could not ride on her own. Her bay gelding rode at the end of their group, tied to Blackwall's huge mare.

Her pallor continued to alarm him as much as her blazing skin did. He stopped to douse her fully clothed at every stream, only continuing when her temperature seemed to have dropped a little.

The delays started to eat at him. He stopped stopping them altogether and rode through all day, all night. His magic fed stamina to the hart, though the buck clearly felt the rigors of the journey. His coat foamed. Blood flecked at his mouth.

Soon, Dorian and Blackwall bade him continue ahead, as their mounts had not the fortitude to keep up any more.

Tens of hours passed. Solas nearly wept with relief when he spotted the walls of Haven. He clutched the Herald as close as he could and forced the hart into a gallop.

It seemed too slow. His wearied limbs felt every painful jolt, every impact of hoof to packed dirt. He leaned close to whisper in the Herald's ear, "Vir sumeil, lethallan. We are close. Stay with me."

Guards on the walls saw him, saw his burden. A great cry of "Healers! Healers!" went up inside the walls. People came pouring out of the gate to see.

Cullen burst from the crowd, pushing people aside so Solas could ride the hart right in. Which he did, galloping right past onlookers to the apothecary, the closest thing they had to a hospital. Adan stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag. When he saw Solas approach at a gallop, the man put on a remarkable burst of speed.

He ran to meet the hart, and pulled the Herald down. Solas slid off and between the two of them, they had her situated in a cot in seconds. Solas collapsed in a nearby chair, and held onto her limp hand.

Adan busied himself checking her vitals. Pulse, color, temperature. He shot off questions to Solas fast as crossbow bolts. "How long?"

"Weeks."

"Where?"

"Since Fallow Mire. But she fell unconscious only four days ago while we were in the Hinterlands."

"That's a hard ride in three days."

Too exhausted for the long explanation, Solas said, "Magic."

"Did she eat something that made her sick?"

Solas shook his head. "I do not know. She was sick when I found her in the Mire. Then it only got worse."

Cullen, Leliana and Josephine all burst in, with Cassandra and Varric behind. From the sound of it, the entire inner circle, nay, the whole of Haven, waited just outside, shouting for news. Varric turned and shut the door on the rest of the gawkers.

The Commander said, fear and concern on his face, "Is she alright?"

"She's not dead," grumbled Adan. "But she's not responsive. I've seen brain fever like this. Starts in the lungs, then moves north. Sometimes they wake, sometimes they don't. The longer she's in a coma, though, the odds of her coming out become slimmer and slimmer. Sooner or later, she'll drown in her own fluids."

Gasps of denial filled the cottage. Solas saw Cullen's face blanch to white, as he was sure his own did.

Cassandra sputtered, "But surely, healing potions-"

"Mean next to nothing," interrupted Adan. "Even if I could force them down her throat, the stuff we have now? Weak and awful."

"Can we not acquire better?" Josephine asked, eyes round in distress.

"From where? _She's_ our best alchemist." He pointed at the Herald.

Leliana hummed and stroked her upper lip. "How best to minimize the impact of this …."

Solas shot her a piercing glare, but it was Cullen who rounded on her with a growled, "'How best to minimize-?' You can never turn it off, can you? There she is, mere inches from death's door and you, you cold-hearted bi-"

"You really want to go out there and tell the Inquisition, your men and all the visiting dignitaries that their only hope may die in the next few days? Your silly infatuation and naive _honesty_ would cost us all the support we've sweat and spilled blood for," she hissed, with a sneer. "Don't be a child."

Cullen took a threatening step forward and something shifted in the Spymaster's stance, a sinuous sway of deadly intent.

Josephine looked on in fright. Cassandra looked between the pair as though torn as to who to stand with. Varric stayed silent, exchanging a look with Solas.

"Enough," said Solas, weary. All eyes turned to him. "Your Spymaster is correct. Nothing can be gained by spreading this news too far. Say only that she is ill, but on the way to recovery."

The Commander's mouth twisted then smoothed. He sighed. "You're both right."

"Now, if all the politics are out of the way," said Adan, voice raising in vexation. "Everyone get out. I have tests and treatment to administer."

The leaders shuffled out, pushing everyone else before them. A ragged cheer went up at Cullen's shouted announcement of the Herald's safe return. The relieved mutters of the crowd dispersed as the mob itself no doubt did.

"You, too, Ser Solas," Adan grumbled, giving the elf a prod with a copper retort. Then the man turned away to fiddle with something at his workstation.

Solas's fingers spasmed tighter on the Herald's hand. "I am not going anywhere."

" _Yes_ , you are. You can't be in here for this. It would be an unforgivable violation of her privacy." Adan turned and then Solas saw the basin of foamy water and sponges in his hands. The drying cloth over his arm.

"Oh. _Oh_ ," stammered Solas, standing with an awkward jerk.

"You need sleep and a good meal." Adan patted his shoulder. "Your cottage is but a few steps away. I promise to keep you all apprised."

"Thank you," said the apostate, dragging himself toward the door. He looked back at her, so silent, so still, and chewed his lip. "I will return in the morning."

His bed never felt more welcoming. His head hit the pillow, but he didn't really feel it. The Fade snatched him out of his body and carried him to a place where the cruel laughter of children filled the air with taunts-

" _Lin'alas! Lin'alas! Lin'alas!"_

And another word just out of earshot, something even uglier and full of malice. Solas strained, but exhausted to the marrow, could not find it.

In the deafening ring of the Fade, he heard another voice, speaking to him as if from underwater. "I can help. I want to help."

His eyes snapped open. The wan light of evening striped through his small window. Did he sleep through an entire day? Sitting up, Solas peered around. Something jangled alarms in the back of his head. Something out of place.

"Reveal yourself," he said to the air.

Movement caught his eye. A boy sat on his floor, pushing a pebble back and forth as though he'd been there for hours. Perhaps he had, but had only made himself noticeable right then.

Solas tilted his head, feeling out with his inner senses. His brows lifted in surprise. "You are a spirit."

Pale, watery eyes found his from under the wide, flat brim of his hat. They stared out from between messy locks the color of straw. "Yes. Spirit. Breathing. Being. Becoming."

It seemed like no possession he'd ever witnessed. No battle of two separate wills was being fought within the spirit. Yet, the boy's solid realness astounded Solas. A spirit, out of the Fade, made manifest in mundane flesh.

 _In_ this _riven world._

Solas smiled.

"Yes. Wake, then wonder. Joy that he hasn't seen everything yet," the spirit rambled, eyes sliding off Solas into the middle distance.

"Have you … taken a name?"

"Cole," he said simply.

Then, Solas remembered the Herald and his eyes cut to the apothecary, worry warping the skin between his brows.

Cole appeared at the window, hands on the glass. "The cold seeps. It steals. She reaches, a child set ablaze in that winter, crying ' _mamae.'_ "

"She is ill with fever."

"Not just. Another is there with her, holding, keeping her in the dark." Cole's face took on an otherworldly mien, an expression no mortal or fallen elvhen god could understand. His voice changed, becoming softer, sweeter, " _Are you ready to hear?"_

The echo, the memory of that demon and little girl shook Solas. He said, "Tell me."

"Find her. _You_ can always find her. I can help." Then the boy seemed to pop out of existence.

Solas stood and went to his wash basin. Travel grime soon turned the water grey, but his thoughts turned elsewhere. Putting on fresh clothes, Solas strode out of his cottage to hear Adan yelling-

"I said herbs! Don't you dare bring that useless frippery in here!"

A soldier, carrying a huge bouquet of flowers, found himself shoved back out of the apothecary. The door slammed in his face. He looked around, sheepish, then shrugged. The bouquet he placed with all the others next to the door. Then he walked away.

Solas's eye passed over the riot of blossoms, noting how some of them came from far away indeed. He shook his head as he walked over to the apothecary and knocked.

"You better have an armload of spindlewee-Oh," Adan amended, as he yanked the door open. Then the man moved aside to let Solas enter.

Walking into the gloomy room, Solas stopped, gaze on the blond human sitting with the Herald, head tilted back, softly snoring. She still lay much as he left her, only stripped of her leathers. A clean linen shift covered her now, simple and shapeless. He watched close and just barely marked the rise and fall of her chest.

Clearing his throat, Solas said to Adan, "Any results with the tests?"

"Yes and no. I've treated the symptoms, bled her once already. She's stable, for now. But the underlying cause continues to _confound_ me," the man growled, setting down a glass beaker with force. "If only she was awake, she could show me how to do that-that _thing_ with the witherstalk. I wish she'd written it down."

A voice whispered at Solas's ear, "She studies. The Red Lady shows her. ' _Letters escape me, child, so you must make a memory of your hands, each finger, width and length. Fingertip, second knuckle, first knuckle.'"_

"Cole?" he said, turning, but only air greeted him.

"What?" asked Adan, distracted with his work.

"A song of skin. Each inch tied to specific recollection." Cole appeared behind Adan, looking over the alchemist's shoulder. But the man didn't seem to be able to see him. "Always looking. Always expanding. Testing, testing tests. Litmus for the testing."

Solas latched onto that last. "Do you have any litmus, Adan?"

"What, that lichen-y stuff? We use it to see how much acidity …." Adan's head snapped up and his eyes grew huge as he stared at the wall. "Maker, that's brilliant!"

Three long steps to the door and the alchemist wrenched it open, shouting, "You! Go to the Archivist and tell him I need some of that special paper we ordered from Val Royeaux!" Then his voice changed volume, if not tone, "Yes? What do _you_ want?"

Solas leaned to one side a little to see Varric, hand up, knuckles ready to rap what had been a closed door. A small spray of daisies tight in his other fist. The dwarf thrust the flowers behind his back and said, neutral, "It's my shift."

Grumbling, the alchemist let him in.

Varric walked over to the sleeping Commander and shook his shoulder. "Curly. Wakey wakey."

"Whuh?" said the man, starting.

"Honestly, I don't know how you manage to sleep with Adan screaming like a mother dragon protecting her clutch in here."

"Oh, you know. Army life." He yawned and stretched his tall frame, then stood with a groan. "Get a few winks while you can, sort of thing. Sometimes mid-skirmish, if there's a quiet moment and you can find a corner to lean up against."

"No, thank you. I like beds and hot food and … comfort." Varric made a show of shivering. "You can keep your army life."

Adan jangled some glassware, shooting the chattering pair a glare. "One visitor, I said. One visitor at a time!"

Cullen frowned and pointed. "Well, what about Solas?"

" _He's_ useful. Unless _you_ have some esoteric knowledge of herbs, one of you must get out!" The alchemist pointed, stern as any elder.

Cullen shot the Herald a hang dog look and shuffled out.

Varric threw a smile Solas's way. "Lucky you. You get to be _useful_."

The dwarf sat on the recently vacated chair and put his feet up on the nightstand. He reached over to pat the Herald's hands where they clasped over her narrow chest. Then he started talking, low and soft. Solas listened for a moment, catching bits and pieces of story.

Then a page ran in with scrolls draped over his arms, all breathless and flushed. Adan grabbed one roll and turned the boy about, giving him a kick to the rear. "Out!"

Solas watched as the man flitted here and there, readying a small basin over a crucible. The stink of rushlight and fat filled the air as he lit it. Once the water began to steam, the alchemist dropped the crumbly, dark contents of a small glass jar into it.

Soon, the water turned a pale lavender color. Using tongs, alchemist dipped strips of the paper in the solution and hung them from little clips affixed to a hanging string over his small laboratory. Then he said to Solas, "Can you continue this for me? I have to replace her bed linens before sickness starts to fester in the cloth."

Nodding, Solas stepped forward and took over the simple task. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Adan lifted the Herald. Varric reached under and yanked all the sheets off the bed, then took the Herald from the alchemist. With clean efficiency, Adan laid new linens down, then gestured for Varric to set her back in the cot.

"What is this?" Adan asked, running fingers over the small white blossoms woven into a circlet over her hair and forehead.

Varric looked around, puzzled as well, but he recovered with a shrug and gave the alchemist a crooked grin. "I brought them."

Adan made to remove them, but stopped and straightened with a huffed, "Silliness."

Cole whispered, just behind Solas, "She likes them. The smell. ' _Bruisewort. A sip to make you hunger. A swallow to purge the pores. A draught to kill a baby before it can be born.'_ "

"I have finished with these," said Solas, deep in troubled thought. He stepped back to let the alchemist inspect the strips.

"If you happen to have any other inspirations, I'll be glad to hear them," said Adan, with a deep sigh.

Solas waited for perhaps Cole to say something, but the spirit just stared into nothing with a murmured, "She has gone behind the curtain again."

The apostate echoed Adan's sigh, and said, "Nothing comes to mind at the moment."

"We'll have some answers when these are dry enough to use, at least."

* * *

 **A/N: *cue dramatic music* Ze plot, she thickens. Also, flower crowns, ftw. I will always love flower crowns. They are the shizznat. (that's right, I just used that word) FLOWER CROWNS FUH-EVER. Anyway, wow, I can't believe I'm pushing 30k with this thing already. Oh, lord, I wonder how big the whole thing is gonna be. Whew. We haven't even gotten to Skyhold yet. Well, I hope you all hang in there. I think it'll come together pretty nicely in the end. That's what I'm aiming for anyway. Thanks to everyone who left reviews and comment, both here and on AO3. Love yous guys.**


	13. Chapter 13

The apostate spent as much time helping with mundane tasks over the next few hours as he did trying to decipher the many cryptic things Cole said-

"' _One finger for rapture._

 _Two fingers for sorrow._

 _Three fingers and he will never again see tomorrow,"_

whispered Cole during the quietest part of the night. The spirit's own hand hovered over a bowl with white powder in it, fingers extended downward as though to dip. Deadly nightshade, or so Adan had said.

Solas sat next to the Herald, and held her frigid left hand in both of his. The Anchor lay quiescent under his thumb. He rubbed the skin to try to bring some life back, but the heat just sank into her flesh and disappeared. As though lost under the waves of some great ocean.

Her face, soft in repose, glimmered in the light of the single candle left burning. Gone, the tenseness. The knife's edge awareness that always seemed on the brink of fight or flight. Soft as feathers, her dark lashes cast shadows on her reddened cheek.

Her flower crown, though hours old now, still had not begun to fade. The daisies stood proud, full, filling the air around her head with their honest, simple fragrance. Their alabaster a stunning contrast against her black upon black hair.

His heart gave a painful lurch, and he had to look away from her. Pulling her hand close, he bent to brush his lips against her knuckles, and whispered, "Wake, lethallan. Let me see you open your eyes again. Speak to me, cajole me, _curse_ me as before. _Tel_ 'lin'alas _!_ "

"What is that … _thing_?!" squeaked a voice at the door.

Solas whipped his head around to see Dorian, wide eyes under wild hair. The Tevinter jabbed a shaking finger in Cole's direction. The man reached for his staff, only to halt when Solas jumped up to stand between Dorian and Cole.

" _He_ is a spirit."

"A demon? You summoned a demon? Here?" he demanded, lips curling in suspicion and unease.

"I most certainly did not. And he is _not_ a demon!" Solas squared his shoulders and stared the Tevinter down. "He is not possessing anyone. He came, unbidden, unbound. To help."

Cole peered around Solas at Dorian, and said, "Glittering to gloss a hidden hurt. _Un_ learning not to hope for more. Stumbling steps where the wall used to be."

Dorian blinked, jerking his head back. Something in his manner relaxed, by a thin margin. "Oh, well, that's … unnerving."

"You get used to it, " said Solas.

Just then, a frazzled Adan entered, dark rings under his sleepless eyes. He didn't even look at the three silent men hovering in his apothecary, just marched right to his flasks and beakers. They watched him fiddle with things, though he didn't seem to have any particular aim.

Then, he pounded the tabletop with his fists and growled, "Why isn't it working? The decoction of elfroot and feverfew. The eucalyptus ointment! The litmus test eliminated everything that wouldn't be affected by those! It's pleurisy. I _know_ how to treat pleurisy. So why isn't it working?"

Cole tapped on Adan's shoulder, and said, "The flames delved deep. Held there like a poisonous pearl by _her_."

"Huh? Who are you?" Adan turned to look at the boy, shocked by suddenly seeing him, no doubt. Then the alchemist looked at Solas. "Who is _he_?"

"A friend," Solas replied, with conviction.

"I'm not so sure," muttered Dorian, darkly. "Wait, who is ' _her_?'"

Cole turned to look at Dorian, mouth moving in his otherwise blank face, "Part and parcel of the past pact. Prisoner. Protector."

Solas thought of that dream again, that dark figure.

"Yes. Find her." Cole's thin fingers found purchase on Solas's sleeve, giving a tug. " _Find_ her. Free her."

"I think we need to try to find the Herald in the Fade," Solas said. "I do not think the medicine will work until we do."

"Are you serious?" said Dorian, brows raised in alarm. "Won't that be dangerous?"

Solas looked at his fellow mage. "Yes, I imagine so. There is something, a presence, possibly a spirit, keeping her ill."

"So, you want to just jump into her dreams and, what, kill it?"

"If reasoning with it does not work first, perhaps."

"You're mad." Dorian threw his hands up in the air. "Absolutely demented."

"It must be done, so I will go do it." Solas started to turn back to the Herald when a hand closed on his elbow.

"I'm going with you," stated Dorian, brows beetling.

Solas's mouth opened to say no.

Cole interrupted, "He wants to help. Needs to help. It will be hard for one, but with two, it will help."

"And you, Cole? Are you not coming as well?" Solas asked.

Startled, the spirit blinked. Then he smiled, with genuine joy. "I forgot that I am a one. Yes. I will come, too."

"Adan, we need to pull in another chair and move the Herald's cot closer to the center of the room," said Solas.

Adan seemed to shake himself awake. "What? Why? And who's this?"

"He forgot me ...," said Cole, forlorn.

"We're going to try something," Dorian said, already rearranging the furniture. Helping him, Solas soon found himself arranged on a chair between wall and cot, while Dorian mirrored him on the other side.

They both took a cold hand from the Herald's chest and settled into their chairs. Solas closed his eyes and concentrated on falling through himself, through the Veil and out the other side. A tug on his being told him that Dorian piggybacked on his crossing.

He opened his eyes on a ... _wasteland._

Blood-red juts of stone tore nearly every building in Haven to pieces. The sky, sickly green and bilesome, roiled thick and horrid overhead. The fetid stink of gore and pestilence filled his nostrils. Solas gagged, covering his nose and mouth.

A soft voice said to his right, "No, no. Not here. Not again."

"Where is here?" asked Solas, eyeing the Tevinter, whose knees sagged nearly to the dirt.

Cole appeared at his side, and said, "The world to come that never was."

Dorian gave a small moan. "This was the future we saw in Redcliffe."

"Her heart dwells here now. It cannot see past this." Cole started walking in a seemingly random direction. Solas grabbed the still reeling Dorian by the arm and dragged him along in the spirit's wake.

Suddenly, the gates of Redcliffe Castle loomed ahead. Solas marveled at the completeness of the imagery. He could even hear the tattered banners snapping. Smells. Sounds. Solidity.

How unlike most unawakened dreamers.

Before he could ponder on that some more, the clash of arms rang from within the keep. Along with shouts in a most familiar voice.

"The Herald," he said, urgency lighting a fire under his feet. Solas ran into the darkness beyond the portal, Dorian fast on his heels.

Cole warned, soft, "Wait."

But Solas did not hear, blinded by his impatience and worry. The dark snapped shut behind him, leaving Dorian and he in the middle of a shadowy skirmish. Six figures dancing around a seventh, an enemy. He recognized himself, Dorian, Cassandra, Leliana, and Varric, led by the Herald. And the seventh-

"Alexius!" Dorian said, pointing.

False Fade rifts opened up, and the shades of mislaid future turned and fought a host of demons. Solas watched as the Herald used the Anchor to close them.

Agony blossomed in his left hand, pulling a hoarse cry from his lips. Dorian echoed him, clutching at his own hand.

"You're remembering it as _she_ remembered it," Cole said, flashing into being to his left. The spirit held up his hand. It glowed a faint green, a reflection of the bright emerald fire bursting from the Herald's mark. "It hurts every time. It will always hurt."

Soon the memory of Alexius lay dead on the ground and the companions gathered around the Herald, talking about how to get back.

Suddenly a deafening roar filled the air. Solas clapped his hands over his ears.

Corrupted Leliana shouted, "The Elder One!"

In the flurry of battle to follow, Solas looked on as the door split open, unleashing a torrent of defiled beings into the hall. The shades of their companions fell, one after another. Cassandra and Varric cut to ribbons. That other Dorian tried to defend the portal as it opened, but a heavy blow dropped him, skull caved in. Withered Leliana pulled into a dark hole in the floor, her screams of torment ringing. Solas watched his other self get torn into shreds, a fountain of blood and entrails.

Overwhelmed at last, the Herald screamed as hands pulled her down, stripping away her armor, fingers jabbing, poking. Violating as they stuck in her ears, eyes, mouth. Dark voices laughed and jeered about what would become of her once their god arrived in earnest. The despair in her gaze grew as she watched the portal close once more, her return to the past blocked. How it horrified him.

"She fails. Every time she fails," Cole said, eyes huge under his hat.

Real Dorian cried out in outrage, "That never happened!"

Unable to stand by any longer, Solas called lightning upon the shades surrounding the Herald. Dorian joined in the fray, flames roaring wherever he pointed. Their combined wills beat back the shades. The false images howled as they disintegrated into ashes. He ran forward and caught the Herald before she collapsed, shouting, " _Lethallan!"_

Her bare hand found his cheek, caressing with calloused thumbs. A smile grew on her bloodied face. She said, voice sweet as honey, "You came to save me, Solas?"

A long, elegant finger swept over his bottom lip. Heat bloomed in his chest as she drew him down for a kiss. Her full mouth begged him to sip. Just before they touched, he heard her say, "My hero. My … _love_."

Something was very wrong.

"Solas," warned Dorian, at his back.

The apostate froze and wrenched his gaze away from her plump lips to see hunger in those grey eyes, a dark and tainted avarice. He stated, "Demon."

She laughed, turning to smoke in his arms. Solas stumbled forward and then spun about.

"A trick, a trap, a trial," said Cole. "She's not here, but she sees here."

Dorian snorted. " _I_ figured that out."

Embarrassment tickled Solas, just for an instant. He'd been momentarily blinded. Unforgivable.

A female voice echoed through the empty halls of Redcliffe Castle. "You would come to my domain and steal my one treasure?"

"She is not yours!" Solas said, voice ringing clear and loud.

"If not mine, then whose? Yours, _harellan_?" The demon hummed. "Linger and I shall destroy you. I hold her heart in my very hands. She put it there herself. Long ago."

"You're killing her!" shouted Dorian.

"If her death be the only way to keep my oath, then so be it." The presence fled further into the castle.

"Hear her," pleaded Cole, looking right at Solas. "Don't just _look_. Hear."

"Honestly, could you _be_ more vague?" huffed Dorian.

Solas closed his eyes and drew on the tie he had to the mark. He could almost see it, a string that led forward somewhere. It sang to him a song he almost didn't recognize. It had changed in pitch, in timbre. It carried harmonies he'd never heard before. They reached deep and set his bones to quivering.

Strange.

He started forward, letting that song lead him.

As they left the hall, the sounds of battle resumed behind them. Cole blinked. "It plays over and over. Failures frame falling future."

The next door opened on the phantom wood. Cloying mist shrouded the treetops, cold and dank.

Cautious of tricks, Solas walked forward, following only his inner senses.

"Are we sure this is the right way?" Dorian asked, looking around.

Solas sighed. "Direction and distance are illusions in the Fade. There is no wrong way."

"Hmm. I knew that before, but I guess I didn't really _know_ until now." Dorian shivered. "This place makes my skin crawl."

"She _wants_ you to find her now," said Cole.

The rumble of cartwheels reached their ears, and every head turned towards it. A wagon rocked from side to side as it rolled by on a small road. Behind the wagon, a long string of half-naked elven captives, each tied to the next, walked in single file. It seemed endless.

Every elf was female, with distended bellies. Pregnant. They had sigils carved over the stretched skin of their abdomens.

Dorian pointed. "That's Tevene!"

One of the women shrieked and fell to her knees, blood and mucus pouring from between her legs.

The sharp snap of a whip cracked through the air and a distorted female voice commanded, "We make camp. If it's worthy, bring me the child once it is born."

"Is this a slaver camp? Why only women?" Dorian asked, face pulled in doubt and anger.

Cole said, "Watch."

The scene changed. They now stood in the interior of a tent, an aged human midwife pulled the baby free with a tug. It squalled, then hiccoughed. The mother, face pulled in agony, reached for the child.

"It would only bring you pain, Ellana," said the midwife, as she cleaned and examined the infant.

"Give her to me, please. Let me look upon her as I never got to look upon the others. You know as well as I that she will be my last," the mother said, voice so soft, so tremulous. "I am torn. Inside."

Face pinched, the midwife handed the baby to the dying woman. After watching them for a moment, the midwife pulled the child back and turned to a waiting guard. She passed the baby on to him. "We must tell the mistress that the child has the talent. She is worthy for the knife."

Sensing danger, the child began to wail.

"No! No, Please," screamed the mother after the guard and the midwife. Weeping, her face turned into the balled up rags she had for a pillow. A spark of ferocity roared to life in her eyes, a bonfire. "Creators, Maker, Andraste, anyone who is listening, if you have any mercy, save my baby. I give you my life. I give you my blood. I give you my soul."

With that, she opened the veins at her wrist with her teeth, smearing the blood all over her lips and neck. Eyes then seemed to latch onto something just over Solas's shoulder. He turned to look but did not see anything. The mother smiled, weak and tremulous, and said, "You came. Will you take her? Will you take ma da'len to the People?"

She listened to a voice only she could hear. Then she laid her head back, tears in her eyes. "Thank you."

Then she died.

The hot and heavy stirring of blood magic filled the air. Oppressive and replete.

Outside the tent, screaming filled the air. Solas and Dorian ducked out to see something, some dark thing slaughtering everyone in camp. It made no distinction between captor and captive. Soon the camp emptied of all life, bodies lay in heaps. Blood stained the packed dirt in large pools.

Silent, but for the wail of a single child.

The demon stalked over to where the baby had been dropped and crouched over her. The darklight shimmered over its stolen form as it reached down and plucked the child from the ground by one ankle. The cries spiked in volume, becoming pained.

Tilting its head, the thing rearranged the infant in its arms until the wailing lessened, then it stood back up. Head turned, body followed and it walked away, into the woods.

His heart roared in his ears. Solas didn't know which he felt more. Hate? Or horror. "Mages. They were all mages."

"Kin. Kept. Killed." Sorrowful, Cole knelt and closed the elven woman's eyes.

"I knew my countrymen were capable of cruelty, but this-" Despair roiled around in Dorian's moistened eyes.

The woods shifted and they found themselves looking upon a clearing. The demon knelt in the middle, a young woman in her lap, reclined against her folded knees. The Herald, asleep. The demon looked up as they approached. Its anima fled and, for the first time, Solas saw it clearly.

"A desire demon!" shouted Dorian, dropping into a ready stance.

"I have her heart in my hands. If you dare to come any closer, I will crush it." The demon tilted her unnaturally beautiful face up and smiled, not a leer but … something else.

"Let her go," said Solas.

"Were it but that simple," the demon said. She whipped her long hair to the side and showed them that, while her claws may be thrust deep in the girl's chest, it was the girl's own hands that kept them there, wrapped around the demon's wrists.

The desire demon continued, "Here have I sat, since fleeing the body of the magister who bound my power to keep her eternally beautiful with the blood of mageborn babes. I stood between this child and her worst fear, keeping her safe."

"She doesn't need to fear any more," Cole said. "If she just _looked-_ "

"Little spirit, she does not want to. She will not let herself see." The look in the demon's eye seemed almost … tender as she looked back down at the sleeping Herald. "I have studied this face over the years. Watched it change and grow. I find I do not want to take it for my own. So, death is the only answer."

"You ... love her," said Dorian, shocked, brows lifting. "How can a desire demon love?"

" _She_ changed her," Cole said, pointing at the Herald. "The bargain-

"' _Promise me you'll love me forever-'_

"And she did," Cole finished. "Love as only a child can love. Full. Complete."

Solas said, "And thus you were bound."

The demon nodded, hair falling forward again around horns that curled out and up. "She has the talent. But it frightens her. Having it breaks all hope of hers of finding … acceptance. Home. I kept it locked away. Until your Anchor started to shake it loose."

"So to keep your oath, you made her ill," Dorian accused. "You'd kill her just to stop her from learning that she's a mage!"

"You say that as though it was ever _my_ will to do so."

"You do not have to kill her, spirit," said Solas, trying reason. "If we can break the bargain itself, then both of you will be free."

She stared silent for a long time. Solas could feel the weight of her consideration. Then she gave a single nod.

Solas took a step forward, pausing when the demon pierced him with a warning look. His hands raised to show he meant her no harm. He called to the Herald, " _Lethallan_. Wake."

The Herald frowned faintly. A crease appeared between her brows. The desire demon bent and whispered in her ear, "Awaken, child. A dreamer has come calling."

Her eyelids flickered and opened, slow and lissome and confused. "Mamae? I had the dream again. The knife. The blood."

"Just a nightmare, ma da'len." The demon kissed her forehead.

"Herald?" called Dorian.

Her gaze found them where they stood. "Dorian? And you …." She looked at Cole. "I _know_ you."

At last, she looked at Solas and the confusion lifted from her expression. Her lips bowed into a genuine smile of gladness, warm and open. "Solas …."

Moved by that smile, he glided forward to kneel at her side. "Da'len."

She gave a little pout. "I hate it when you call me that. I'm not a child."

Solas chuckled. "I was not aware. My apologies." He moved a soft tuft of her hair off her face and brushed it over her ear. "And now, you must let go."

"What?" said she, bewildered.

Dorian knelt at her other side with a leery glare for the demon. "Herald. You're dying."

Her thoughts turned inward, he could see. Then she said, "I … I think I knew that."

"Unbind the demon, Herald. Then let us return to Haven." Dorian put a hand to her hair, smoothing it, seeking to soothe. "I've just joined. I don't want to miss out seeing what sort of mischief you'll get up to."

"I thought I _was_ in Haven. Am I not in Haven? I thought I heard Varric …." She looked around, then she said, "Solas, didn't you bring me back to Haven? After the swamp?"

"I did, but you were ill. Finding you in the Fade was our only hope of waking you."

"I'm in the Fade …." Her mouth dropped open in awe, then snapped shut. "It's so peaceful here. Why would I want to go back to Haven? Nothing waits for me there but that damned Breach. No one cares about _me_ , really. Only this." The Anchor. Green light flared out around where her left hand clutched the demon's.

"More people care than you think. Even now, they wait for you to wake. They _pray_ for you to wake." She seemed unconvinced. Solas turned the subject back to the present. "Now if you let go, we can go home."

"Let go?"

"She can't feel the hands in her hands. She has held them so long that they are a part of her." Cole crouched as the words spilled from his pale lips.

"Lethallan," said Solas, his hands up before her eyes. She followed them as they dipped low, saw them touch her own, where they wrapped tightly around the demon's wrists. Her eye drifted down and saw the claws embedded in her flesh. Shock became horror.

Then Solas said, firm and calm, "You are a mage. Accept it."

"Mamae _!"_ Fright suffused her features and she twisted, calling out in pain as moving brought her torment. Her face turned to the desire demon. "Mamae, what-?"

"Sh, sh, ma da'len. All will be well." Pity filled the demon's expression. Pity and suffering.

The Herald stilled, though mad terror stilled distorted the line of her mouth. Her expression shifted as the truth hit home.

Solas coaxed, "Let go."

Her fingers did loosen and the Fade shook, but then she cried out and grasped even tighter. "I can't. I can't. It hurts. I can feel the magic clawing to get out-"

"You must, dear heart," said Dorian, hands on her shoulders. "She is trapped as you are trapped. Let go before it kills you both."

Tears rained down her cheeks as she said, "But then there will be _no one_ who loves me."

He clamped his jaw over what ridiculousness might spill out of his fool mouth.

Instead, he placed his hands over hers and squeezed. When her face turned to him, he said, "For love's sake, then. Set her free."

Her digits twitched under his. Her welling eyes called to him of deep, cutting grief. Then, as before … agonized acceptance. Eyes sliding shut, her grip loosened.

The demon shuddered as the binding broke. The corruption that had enveloped the whole of this part of the Fade burned away. Retracting her hands from the Herald's chest, the demon lifted up and up into the ether.

The apostate watched in wonder as the darkness of her jaded, spoilt form fell away, leaving a radiant being who shouted light and laughter out to all the edges. Then it shot off into the distance, vanishing in seconds before he got more than the barest glimpse of glory.

Cole's eyes shone as they tracked the freed spirit. "For _her_ sake."

Solas looked down and saw the Herald holding her chest over her heart, whole and unmarred. Her expression hollow, bereft. Then it went still, blank and she said, toneless, "Wake us, then."

Dorian and he exchanged a worried glance. He reached deep inside and _twisted._

* * *

 **A/N: Well, a big secret revealed. So, what this is sort of centered around is the whole latent mage thing. Is the talent apparent at birth? Orsino sort of implied it was. Then what would it take to hide it? Ugh, I'm so mean to this Inquisitor, putting misfortune after misfortune in her path. Torturing her. Lol. Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter. Con-crit and reviews are welcome, as always.**


	14. Chapter 14

Her eyes glittered in the darkness as they marked him. His first sight upon opening his. Dorian stirred on her other side. Solas did not wonder where Cole went. It was most spirits' natures to be capricious.

"My Lady Herald!" Adan scrambled over to them. He ran the back of his hand over her forehead and sighed in great reprieve. Words tumbled out of his mouth. "Thank goodness it worked. While the three of you were out, you started convulsing again. The fever came back, hotter than ever. As though whatever these two gentlemen were doing was drawing it out. So, I made a bergamot and feverfew poultice. I really wish you had written down instructions for those witherstalk potions. You know I'm not good with medicinals …. Lady Herald?"

She didn't so much as bat an eye the alchemist's way. She just stared at Solas, a torrent of undefinable emotions in her grey gaze.

The Tevinter cleared his throat, then stood. "Well, that was certainly exciting. I'll just-I'll just go get some fresh air. Can I bring back some for you? Either of you? No? Okay, I'm just-Good eve." And out he scuttled, dragging a protesting Adan with him.

Silence reigned for a long time after the cottage emptied. He found he could not look away this time. The fever spots had faded, her gaze clear and sharp as ever. He found he much preferred her this way.

Finally, she rolled away from him and said, "You must think me so-so ... _stupid_."

"No, I do not."

"I was everything they said, and more." She trembled. " _Lin'alas_. _Len'banal_. And now what they always suspected. _Era'harel_."

The words smote him like poison arrows: _Dirty blood. Nothing child. ...Demon-mage._

"You are none of those things, _lethallan_." He reached out and turned her on her back by one shoulder so she could see he meant every word. "You are just … you. Intelligent, infuriating you."

Sight clouded with doubt, she looked away. After a while, she said, "Take me to the Breach."

Taken aback, Solas said, "You are not recov-"

Her furious gaze swept back to him, so full of rage and adamant as the fortress named for it. Her lips pressed into a grim line. "I will _crawl_ there if I have to."

An answering anger stirred in him, but he stood with a sharp, " _Ma_ _nuvenin_ , _Herald_. Far be it from me to keep you from your martyrdom."

She winced, but didn't relent. With a hiss, she sat up, limbs trembling with weakness.

Solas came around the edge and helped her to her feet. With racking coughs, she stumbled to the alchemist's workstation and started mixing ingredients. Her hands flew from jar to bowl to sundry, dancing in measures and rhythms he could only glimpse part of with the understanding Cole had lent him.

Before he could utter a caution, she downed her tonic and gripped the table, gasping.

A false vitality bloomed in her cheeks. Her limbs lost their tremor, becoming languid and loose.

She stood and swayed just as the door burst inward, admitting the advisors. Cullen surged forward to take her hand. "Thank the Maker! You're awake."

With a soft smile, she stumbled and caught herself on the edge of the table. "I am."

Leliana and Josephine smiled in relief, eyes joyful. Cassandra uttered a prayer.

The Herald placed her other hand on Cullen's arm and said, tone coaxing and wispy, "I am ready. Carry me to the Breach, Cullen?"

The Commander frowned in concern, as did the rest of the advisors. "You've only just awoke. Are you sure you can-?"

"I assure you. I am quite capable," she said, words slow and deliberate. If they seemed a little slurred or frail, no one commented. "It is time."

Solas watched as doubt bled away from their enraptured faces. Here was their savior, their chosen. Come back to stop the madness. If only they knew how she manipulated them, how she only stood now because she'd drugged the pain, the anguish away.

The wrongness of it poked at him and Solas looked away before his wholehearted discontent with her deception undid him. His arms crossed over his chest, and then he cleared his throat. By the way they hushed, he knew he had their attention, but he would not look away from the knot on the wall that held his fascination. He said, "I will go rouse the mages."

Then he left, and if he did take a peek and saw her looking after him, lost and alone behind her mask of god-given grace, he lied to himself and insisted he hadn't.

* * *

"Focus past the Herald. Let her will draw from you!" he called.

The hole in the sky bubbled and boiled. The Anchor sizzled as the Herald thrust her hand aloft. Cullen stood at her back, lending her his strength.

Solas peered close at the Breach as it ate away at all the magic sent its way. He felt the yearning yank at his soul, the wish that this had happened as it should have happened. Not the mad and unnatural chaos the one who would be a god had engendered.

When the gate to the Fade snapped shut, the force of it knocked everyone present off their feet. Solas reeled, then lifted his head with a shake. He looked around.

There.

Cullen alone stood, back to the apostate. Solas could just see the top of a raven-haired head crowned in daisies and bare feet around the man's bulk. Rolling to his feet, Solas paced close and around the man.

Eyes rolled back, she lay limp, senseless across both the Commander's arms. Cullen's face pulled into a rictus of worry and he said to Solas, "Is she-?"

Solas reached out and touched her forehead, unfurling inner sight. Barely hidden relief flowed through him. "No. She sleeps. A natural sleep this time."

The Commander let out a huge breath and sagged. "Thank the Maker." Then his gaze turned thoughtful as he looked down into the Herald's face and a smile played around his scarred lips.

A sharp something stabbed Solas's guts. Something he didn't want to examine any further, so he snapped his fingers under the Commander's nose and said, rather tersely, "We should get her back to Haven."

"Yes," said the human.

"She did it," Cassandra said, voice full of awe. She stared upwards at the writhing green scar across the sky.

Cullen turned to everyone else and shouted, "The Breach is closed! The Herald lives!"

A riotous cheer went up, filling the air with calls of "The Herald! The Herald!" It rang and echoed off the broken stones of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Later, Solas found himself yet again at her bedside. She came to with a grumble for the bright light of day streaming through the window. A hand came up to cover her eyes as she coughed. Then she froze as she spotted him in the chair next to her.

They stared at each other for a long time.

Solas smiled, thin and strained. "So, here we are again."

Equally dry, she replied, "Yes. We should stop meeting like this."

Silence fell again, filled with things neither could bend enough to say. Then, Solas sighed. "Are you done trying to kill yourself?"

A twitch at the corner of her mouth defied interpretation. Her eyes flashed. "... _Probably_ not?"

He sighed again, with a little more vehemence. "So difficult."

Struggling, she tried to sit up. He moved to help her, but she waved him off with an irritated flap. Her hand found her flower crown and ripped it off, giving it an curious and slightly offended look. She tossed it on the bed.

Once settled, she glowered at him. "'Difficult.' As though I'm some sort of problem for you to solve, or fix. I'm not, by the way."

"Then why be so problematic?" he shot back.

She paused, then retorted, "Maybe I _am_ a problem then. But I'm _not … your_ problem."

He ignored the way his throat bobbed at that. Looking away before he started yelling, he said, "Is it so hard to believe someone _could_ care what becomes of you?"

"Yes," came her soft reply after a moment. So certain.

Solas ventured a glance and saw her staring at her marked hand, thumb kneading the compromised flesh there. His own hands came to rub together between his knees. The unbearable quiet pained him. It hissed recrimination after recrimination in his ear.

He looked down and said, "Still planning on leaving?"

A bitter laugh like dry leaves fell from her lips. "Where would I go? I have no home, no people who'd have _me_. I have nothing, and now … well, now I have no one. I had to _force_ a demon to love me. How fucked is that? Not that I even remember much of what happened in the Fade. All I know is that what was once a warm spot, that made me feel like I was maybe worth a damn, is just … _gone_." She stalled, then finished, "And now, I don't even have a purpose."

He bit the inside of his cheek. "I believe if you would but look around, you might find a purpose."

"Ah, but whose? My own? Doubtful."

Solas sighed a third time. "There is still a question of this Elder One. He will not like that you have thwarted him twice now."

She coughed, hard, pulling her bed linens up to cover her mouth. Full, choking coughs that wracked her whole body.

Frowning in worry, the apostate moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He patted her back until the spasms subsided. She fell back to the pillows with a grimace, and pointed at the shelves of potions near Adan's apothecary.

"No. You cannot just drug yourself to oblivion as before. It solves nothin-"

Hoarse, she interrupted, angry, "You think I don't know that? Hand me that blue one. It's emulsion of henbane. For the cough."

Still, he hesitated.

"Creators! You're _useless_." The Herald gave a dissatisfied grunt. "Get Adan if you doubt me."

Disgruntled, Solas stood and grabbed the vial, tossing it to her.

She threw it back in one gulp, then gasped. After a moment, she turned to him and said, after a moment of watching him, "You're genuinely angry."

He took a step toward the door, half inclined to just leave her there alone. He'd at least get some peace to restore his equilibrium. How easily she destroyed his calm.

"Is it because of the 'useless' thing?" she said, with a note of true concern in her tone. Chagrin colored her cheeks. "Or the 'flat-ear' thing?"

"Among others. Not words that should apply to someone who has gone out of their way on _multiple_ occasions to help an abrasive, intrusive brat."

Her mouth opened to let fly a scathing insult or two, surely. Then snapped shut as her eyes cut downward in guilt. Her hand shot out to pull him back to the bed by his sleeve. He let her, sitting on the very edge. She said, "I … _have_ been a brat, haven't I? Selfish and stupid."

Startled at the easy admission, Solas waited.

The Herald swallowed and looked him full in the face. "I-I am sorry, Solas."

Her honest contrition eased the sting of her earlier words, soothing the blows to his pride. A warmth suffused his chest. Words found themselves to his tongue, "Will you stay in Haven?"

"Do _you …_ want me to stay?" Her emphasis on 'you' did funny things to his gut.

"I would like th-" The tolling bells of the watchtowers interrupted him. Shouts of alarm resounded through the town. Solas stood and strode to the door. Looking out past the walls, he saw countless torches in the mountain passes. A flowing river of baleful red. He made to go out to investigate when a voice called his attention back.

The Herald said, "What's happening?"

"We are under attack."

She threw off the covers and swung her feet off the bed. "I'll go with you." Then coughs sapped away whatever she'd been about to say next. Taking what little strength she mustered with it. She paled before the onslaught of sickness.

He held a hand up, warding. "No. Stay here. You cannot fight as you are."

"But-" She tried to stand, only to fall back onto the bed before a small push of his magic.

"A gentle breeze would knock you over, _lethallan_." He smiled to take the bite from the assertion. "Do not make me lock you in here."

He turned away, but not before he saw her shake her fist at him. A smile tugged at his lips as he sprinted toward the gates, snatching up his staff from where it leaned on his cottage as he went.

Cassandra ahead on the path diverted her run to swing alongside him. She shouted, pulling her sword free, "We must get to the gates!"

He nodded and put on another burst of speed. Iron Bull joined them with a wide grin tinged with bloodlust. "Guess the celebratory drinks are on hold."

At his heels, Varric laughed. "I'd just sent out invites to the party, too. Shame."

Armsmen shouted out as they reached their posts, pikes and swords at the ready. Cassandra split off to talk to Cullen. "Cullen?"

"One watchguard reported that it's a massive force whose bulk is over the mountain."

Solas listened with half an ear as he silently counted thousands of enemies flooding toward them. And the bulk still remained out of sight?

"Under what banner?" Josephine said, stepping up to them.

"None." Cullen's brows drew together.

Solas took a step toward the main gate just as a heavy knock rang through the air. The air tasted strange just for a moment before a soft, quavering voice bled through from the other side, "I can't come in unless you open!"

No one moved but Solas, who recognized that voice. He pushed them open with both hands only to be confronted by a burly human in venatori plate striding toward him with a huge battleaxe. Solas shifted to a ready stance.

Then the enemy soldier cried out and fell forward. Behind him, the slim figure of a wan boy appeared. He stepped around the corpse and said, "I am Cole. I came to warn you and to h-"

"To help. I know, Cole." Solas smiled.

The boy seemed startled. "Y-you remember."

"Of course I do." He reached out and squeezed the spirit's shoulder.

A smile of wonder touched the boy's face for a second before he shook himself. "People are coming to hurt her, hurt all of you. You-you probably already know."

"Tell us what you know," demanded Cassandra from Solas's side.

"The Templars are coming to kill her," he said, low and urgent.

"Templars?" asked Cullen, at his back. "Is this their response to our talks with the mages?"

"The Templars are with _him_ now." Cole swayed as he said, "The Elder One is sooo angry. She stole his mages. Look. There." And he pointed to the far ridge.

Solas peered into the distance. A tall creature walked over the rise, dwarfing the man in red armor in its shadow. A thing of corrupted flesh and sinister expression, this must be Corypheus.

His first sight of the aged magister in the flesh. Seeing him and the monstrous legions at his command drew a shiver up and down Solas's spine. _My foothold in this new age is precarious as yet._

And now, doom had come.

* * *

 **A/N: I try not to do too much game dialogue, but it does sneak in there during those pesky canonical, pivotal scenes, dang it. Silly things. Oh well. Anyway, one more chapter out on the interwebs. Hope it meets expectation. Thanks for all the kind reviews so far, dear readers. Feel free to gimme some more feedback. I enjoy reading them! Cheers!**


	15. Chapter 15

_The Inquisition is finished._ Over.

Defeated.

The fire held his fascination as he tried to formulate a new strategy, a new plan, only to have it scattered by the recollection of grey eyes giving him one last, regretful look before the false archdemon breathed a wall of fire between them.

The memory unspooled once more before his staring eyes-

" _Bull!" he shouted, throwing himself at the trebuchet crank.. It turned so slow in his hands. The Qunari, covered head to toe in blood, grabbed the base of the whole engine and heaved. It sped up but little._

 _Varric shouted a warning, "More incoming!"_

 _Cursing under his breath, Solas turned to meet them, fire and ice at the ready. The forces clashed together in the ringing symphony of war. Solas shook off the sting of many hits and Templar smites. Let the villagers reach the treeline soon. Let him save what few he could. He hoped with all his heart that Cullen had found the Herald and at least gotten her to safety. Gotten the Anchor out of Corypheus's vile reach._

" _Dragon!" shouted Bull._

 _Solas looked up and saw the beast fold its wings back to dive. It had taken out one trebuchet already, and now it came for the second. The apostate yelled, "Move! Now!"_

 _He took to his heels after Bull, Varric and Cassandra. An explosion knocked them all off their feet. Senses returning slowly, he looked up to see that malignant figure stride through the dragon's flames, untouched, unscorched. Holding the orb of Fen'harel,_ his _orb, in one malformed hand._

 _Those eyes, filled with damnation, washed over them all. A sneer curled his misshapen lips. "Where is your Herald of Andraste now? Does she cower behind those pitiful walls?"_

 _The foul dragon landed behind them, trapping them. Solas stood firm and shouted, "Beyond your reach, creature!"_

" _Nothing is beyond my reach, insect. Wherever she is, she will hear every scream I pull from your lips. Hear every crunch of bone, and every tear of flesh. For daring not to face me, I will craft your suffering into a thing of legend." A blast of magic threw them all to the ground. "And trust that when I_ do _find her, her fate will be worse by sevenfold."_

 _Solas lay, paralyzed and thought,_ Is this to be my end? The end of my journey, my plans, my machinations? Was it all for naught?

 _Without his mantle of power, the possibility of death seemed all too feasible._

" _I am here," said a soft female voice nearby._

No. _Solas struggled until he could see. There, drifting out of the gate, ignoring the false archdemon who bounded around her with such menace-_

 _The Herald._

 _Dressed hastily in her leather armor, she stepped forth, shaky and still pale, dragging a naked longsword in the dirt behind her._

" _Run," whispered Solas, pleading with his eyes. She paused as she passed him, looking down. There, in her face, he saw acceptance. Not the bleak surrender as before, but something new._

 _Something altogether more … magnificent. A strength of will in her he had never suspected. The shift in her expression as she turned it toward Corypheus caused Solas to shudder in dread on the creature's behalf._

 _Just a woman. Alone. Sick. Weak._

 _But now she makes the choice._

 _To protect._

 _To defend to her last breath something bigger than herself._

 _And it makes her so much more._

 _Then she planted her feet and swung that sword up into a guard position. Solas saw the way her limbs trembled, heard the light wheeze in her breath._

She can barely even lift the thing.

 _She said to Solas, out of the corner of her mouth, "When you can, run for the tunnel."_

 _And there is no doubt in him that she'll get them that chance. But he can't help but say, "Still chasing martyrdom?"_

 _She smiled. "I always wanted a statue of me. Forgive me."_

 _That last she said so soft, he almost didn't hear._

 _Then she charged with a roar worthy of that accursed dragon. Helpless, he watched her run past Corypheus in a wide arc. The monster dodged her pathetic swings, but still turned away from the rest of them._

 _The spell holding him to the ground released with a snap. Solas lunged to his feet with his staff already sending crackling energies toward the dueling pair._

 _Then that false archdemon leapt between the two groups, jaws snapping._

 _Cassandra shouted, "We have to help her!"_

 _Solas couldn't agree more, but as they all started forward, the dragon spit fire in a line at their feet. The unnatural flames roared to almost twice his height, then started to consume the ground in front of him._

 _He had to retreat or be seared. Peering through the fire, he caught a last glimpse of flashing blue-grey eyes turned his direction. Then Corypheus grabbed her and dangled her from his fist._

 _And Solas could see no more._

 _Varric grabbed him before he gave in to the mad urge to leap through the expanding flames. "The tunnel!"_

 _Reluctant, he let the dwarf drag him along as they fled-_

Snapping out of the reverie, Solas shook his head. He looked around at the remains of what had been his one hope to stop Corypheus and despaired. At least the Herald had found a way to trigger the last shot and bury the refugees' trail.

And herself in the process.

Mistakes _plagued_ his existence. Closing his eyes, he searched for the Anchor and did not find it.

Just … nothing.

Was she dead? Or perhaps the flood of death in the area disrupted the fabric of the Fade so much he could not hear her passing.

No, in all likelihood, the avalanche killed her seconds after they'd been separated. His heart gave a painful wrench.

"Brooding must be the great Elven past-time," said Varric, plopping onto the log at his side. "You all do it so well."

Solas's eyes opened to see the dwarf grinning at him. He said, "You seem strangely cheerful, durgen'len. Considering."

"Hey. Sometimes it's either laugh or cry." Varric spat into the campfire. "Too damn cold to cry up here. I'll get icicles on my face."

They sat in silence for a time, before Varric said, "Do you think she made it?"

Sighing, Solas said, "The odds are … astronomical."

"So you're saying it would be a miracle." Varric hummed. "I can work with that."

A spike of anger shot through the elf. "This is not one of your stories, Varric."

A rare hint of repentance flickered in the dwarf's face. "I-I know that, alright. But hoping helps. It's better than mopily staring into a fire."

Solas lifted an eyebrow. "I do not mope."

"Please. All you do is mope. And brood. Don't forget the brooding." Varric raised his hands. "So you miss her. We all do. She's a spiky little thing, likes to push people's buttons. Hates false modesty. Hates overblown windbags. But she has balls, that kid. She's not afraid to kick some ass. Or stop to talk with you for a minute, even when she's still bleeding." He sniffed, then surreptitiously wiped a tear away.

Taken aback by the dwarf's outpouring, Solas paused and saw it for what it was. "You speak in the present tense to avoid thinking of her dead, don't you?"

"I'm not going to believe it until I see the body. Besides," the dwarf began, with a slow, sly grin. "Long shots have the best pay-outs."

Shouts went up around the camp. For a moment, Solas thought the enemy had found them to finish them off. Until he heard the cheers, the jubilation. And the laughter.

Green light haloed a figure being helped to the center of camp.

Solas found himself on his feet, staring in wonder.

"See?" said the smug dwarf at his side. With a whoop, Varric tore off in that direction.

And if Solas followed with similar fervor and haste, he didn't care if anyone saw.

* * *

The song rang through the snowy passes, gathering strength and hope and faith with every echo.

A stirring of primordial forces plucked at Solas's inner senses. The advent of change breathed on the winds. So familiar. He knew this feeling. And it filled him with wonderment _and_ trepidation.

She looked over the kneeling masses, face a mix of awe and uncertainty. Did she feel it? The power of belief focused on her? Uplifting her? Making her more?

Would she even know it if she did?

Gathering himself, he went to her and said, in her ear, "A word."

She followed him as he picked his way through camp and out by the sentry torches. He felt her regard like pinpricks between his shoulderblades. With a turn of his hand, he lit one of the beacons with veilfire. Then he turned to face her.

Her ordeal had marked her. He saw it in the sallow color of her skin, the dark rings around each eye. Even her breathing had changed, puffing frost onto the air in thin pants, showing how even the little jaunt out here had tired her.

She watched him just as closely, green light flickering over her features. Then her mouth widened in a smile. "Well, I didn't die."

He said, "Not for lack of trying."

"Guess I won't be needing that statue after all." She pouted. Then her expression turned thoughtful. "You … saved me. In the Fade."

"You saved yourself. I merely … showed you how."

She hummed and rubbed the back of her neck. "I didn't even thank you."

"It is never too late," he said, archly. His lip kept wanting to curl at the corner, though. It rather spoiled the effect, he found, as she narrowed her eyes with a tiny grin of her own. Found out, he could only tilt his head at her and let the smile grow.

"I'll keep that in mind," she replied, playfulness making her cheeks dimple. Then a pensive frown found its way onto her face. She said, "I need to do better."

Aware she didn't really require a response, he waited.

"I need to _be_ better _,"_ she repeated. At that moment, she is so earnest that it stung him at his heart. She continued, "It appears I'm stuck with this. And I can't _do_ this if I keep on as I have been. A leaf on the hurricane. Tossed here and there. That … monster …."

She shuddered, then pierced him with a look. The directness, the sheer _focus_ of it stunned him. Belying the strength of that stare, she said, hesitant and halting, "Will you … will you help me? Please, Solas?"

The strange timidity she presented to him brought a chuckle out of his throat. At her warning glare, he bowed, sombre as graves, and said, "Ma nuvenin, _Blessed_ Herald of Andraste."

He laughed at the disgusted wince on her face. She grumbled, "Not you. I don't care if anyone else calls me that, but please, not you."

So his opinion _did_ matter to her. "I have nothing else to call you. 'Da'len?'"

"No."

He said, in Elvhen, _"'One who delights in making trouble?'"_

Her finger drummed her bottom lip as she pretended to consider it. Then she shook her head. "No."

"Well, when that changes, _do_ let me know, Herald." Solas hummed in good humor. Then after a long comfortable silence, he said, "The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting. Their faith is hard won, lethallan, worthy of pride … save for one detail …."

Then, he frowned. "The threat Corypheus carries. The power he used against you. It is ours."

Her brows lifted in surprise and her mouth opened as if to ask for clarification.

But he didn't give her a chance. "Corypheus used the power of the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave. We must find out how Corypheus survived. And we must prepare for their reaction when they learn the orb is of our people."

Lancing him with a stare that demanded answers, she said, "Alright. What is it and how exactly do you know about it?"

Such determination. He took a moment to appreciate the firmness in her gaze. His hands clasped tighter at his back. "Such things were called foci. Said to channel power from our gods. Some were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon. All that remains is references in old ruins. And faint visions of memory in the Fade, echoes of a dead Empire. But however Corypheus came by it, the orb is Elvhen and with it, he threatens the heart of human faith."

Her hand froze where it played at her bottom lip. "If this goes tits up, they'll come to blame all elves."

She sees so much he cannot help but be impressed. "An easy scapegoat for the death of their Most Holy. Well, no matter what may come of it eventually, you need every advantage-"

And then he tells her of a place. A place that has been more and more on his mind since Haven. A place that he'd meant to take for his own once more, when the Inquisition had run its course, helped him heal the damage Corypheus had caused, and could be of no further use to him.

When he'd finally gotten his orb back.

But looking at her now, with her new resolve and that spark of hope in her eye, … perhaps it would suit her more.

 _Tarasyl'an Te'las._

The Place Where The Sky Is Kept.

The place where the Veil was born.

* * *

 **A/N: Again, with the canon dialogue. I did my best to keep it to a minimum, though. Anyway, hope everyone's holidays went well. I, for one ..., DIDN'T ... murder any relatives of note. So, progress. LOL. Also, finally got caught up on TWD, so that was epic. Until next time, my friends. As always, critique and comments are welcome.**


	16. Chapter 16

" _I need to_ be _better."_

The memory still had the power to make him smile as grumbles and oaths filtered down from above.

Dorian said, patience wearing thin in his voice, " _Please_ note the difference. This is a 'b', not a 'd.'"

"Well, who made them so damn similar anyway?" demanded the elven woman. Solas could almost picture the glower, the sneer. He smiled even wider as he mixed his paints.

"Some Ferelden, I assume." Dorian hummed. "Look, do you want to learn or not?"

She mumbled something vulgar, but continued to read aloud from whatever text Dorian had assigned. Solas did not envy the Tevinter his task. Dorian had been more suited to it anyway. Better acquainted with the modern, southern languages. To Solas's ear, they still sounded strange. Stilted, abbreviated. Lacking the subtle nuances of ancient Elvhen.

This, he understood, was in part because in this new age, one did not have the luxury of composing a single thought over a decade.

"Again," said Dorian. "Try using the cadence to better understand the rhythm of written and spoken language. Listen-"

Then the Tevinter started tapping the stone on the second landing with one foot as he read in a voice not quite a singsong- "The Constellation Bellitanus: Referred to as 'the Maiden' in common parlance, depictions of the constellation Bellitanus vary-" And on he droned.

Solas felt a prickle at his nape and turned his head a fraction. His hand continued to sweep the brush back and forth across the wall, leaving a wide swath of goldenrod on the fresh, wet plaster on this section of the rotunda wall.

Up on the second floor, grey eyes under an unruly mop of jet black hair peered at him from just over the railing. Seeing herself spotted spying, the _Inquisitor_ sat straighter, revealing the rest of her face to the apostate. Her elbow came up to rest on the balustrade. Her chin dropped into her palm as her lips curled into a sardonic smile.

This he returned with raised brow.

Her eyes cut over to the pacing Dorian, then rolled and found his again. Suppressing the chuckle that pressed upon his tongue, Solas shook his head with consternation. He gave a pointed jerk with his chin, _Pay attention to your teacher._

She pretended to drop into sleep, eyes closed, mouth open in a silent snore.

At this, he did let a soft snort out.

Then she snapped 'awake' and looked down at him again. Her lips stretched wider into a wicked grin, pleased to have gotten a reaction from him.

"-believed to have originally referred to Urthemiel, the Old God of Beauty …. Kaffas!" cursed Dorian. The book in his hand swept around to thump the Inquisitor on the head. "Here I am, trying to teach you to read and you'd rather make calf eyes at Solas?! _Un_ believable."

Rubbing her skull, she turned away. Solas could just make out the curve of her reddening cheek. She said, contrite, "I'm sorry, Dorian. Please continue."

Slightly mollified, the Tevinter grumbled, and leaned over the railing. "And you! Stop distracting Alas."

Solas schooled his expression into a neutral and turned critical eye upwards. "Me? I did nothing. True, I did happen to glance up. But the Herald seemed wholly absorbed in your lesson to me. Or perhaps in the melodious sound of your voice."

Brows shooting up, Dorian stood straight. "Oh, well, good then. It _is_ melodious, isn't it." Then he went back to pacing and lecturing.

Solas and the Inquisitor shared a conspiratorial smirk behind the man's back. The apostate turned back to his fresco to hide his smile should the Tevinter happen to look again. He hummed to himself as he worked.

Standing back, the elf looked about his sanctuary. The only part of the whole of Skyhold to retain echoes of a long lost past, the rotunda was starting to lose some of its shabbiness. The brush in his hand drew memory forth as fully as the whisper of ancient power under his heels. It tickled his senses, that power. Just being near it invigorated him.

Nothing compared to what he once had, but it would suffice to help rebuild some of that might anyway.

He sighed and put away his tools after cleaning them. Lids went back on the jars of watery paint near the scaffold.

"It's quite amazing that you can do that all in one go," said a voice to his right. He turned to see Vivienne coming in from the door to the outside. Cool mountain air rushed in with her, ruffling his papers and sketches. Giving her a nod of greeting, he moved to set a paperweight to pin it all down.

"You flatter me," said he, with a pleasant smile.

"Such an … interesting style. In such vivid color, too," Vivienne commented, looking at his one finished panel. She gave him a sidelong glance. "I believe I may have to steal you away to do the atrium at my estate."

"As much as that would … please me, Madame de Fer, I'm afraid I don't take commissions." He didn't bother to hide the sarcasm.

With a regal bob of her head, she said, "Pity. Still, such stylized fancies are sure to brighten the place up. Now, I must go collect our Inquisitor for her lessons on courtly comportment. If she is to meet the Empress, she must at least be able to tell who is worth being seen speaking to and who is not."

"Ah, _certainly_." He put an acerbic edge on his tone.

"It will be difficult enough establishing a place for a Dalish elf among the peerage. And now I hear she's illiterate _and_ a latent mage?" Vivienne clicked her tongue thrice in consternation. "Her … _novelty_ will not endure past those revelations, if they become known."

Solas forced himself to stay calm as he said, "There is no shame in ignorance, Vivienne. Only when one refuses to learn."

"I know that, darling. It's why I decided to take a hand personally in her shaping." The dark-skinned mage looked up where the Inquisitor sat, reading for Dorian. Her soft voice drifted down to them, already gaining the rounded tempo of the educated. Vivienne listened for a moment, then said, "I believe I'm not alone in doing so. After all, you are the one teaching her magic."

He didn't like the implication of manipulation, but had to admit to himself that it was precisely because he simply didn't trust anyone else to do it. Vivienne would inhibit instead of hone. Dorian stank of necromancy. No, neither would do.

"Dorian! Dear, are you quite finished with our Lady Inquisitor for the day?" called Vivienne to the second landing.

The Tevinter leaned over the rail again, a devilish smile on his tawny face. "Madame Vivienne! I see you've returned from Val Royeaux already. How did your latest foray into those shark-infested waters go?"

"Swimmingly, darling!" said she, approaching the stairs. "It helps to be the biggest shark."

"Or just the one with the sharpest teeth, my svelte lovely," retorted Dorian, "Any saucy gossip you'd like to share?"

"Later, dear. Now I must borrow Alas for the evening. There is much I need to impart to her before Inquisition business takes me far from home yet again." She put the back of one hand to her forehead in dramatic fashion, as though aggrieved to be so put upon.

"Yes, I'm sure all the lavish parties at your villa are _sooo_ trying," inserted the Inquisitor, as she stood and tucked a couple of slim books under her arm. "And _who's_ footing the bill? Ah, that's right. We are."

"I know, my darling. But it's a sacrifice _I'm_ willing to make." Vivienne smiled, charming and innocent. "Now come along, Alas."

The Inquisitor trooped down the stairs with ill-grace, hopping the last few like a child to stand next to Vivienne. She scrubbed dust from the soles of her bare feet onto inner pant legs.

The circle mage's mouth pulled downwards in the slightest of frowns. "Must you be a savage?"

"What else _can_ I be in order for you tame me?" she shot back, pursing her lips exactly the same way Vivienne did now.

Solas fought the twitching at the corners of his mouth as he pretended to be oh so fascinated with the cuff of his tunic.

"Solas." Vivienne swept by him with the Inquisitor in tow.

The apostate clasped his hands behind his back. "Madame de Fer. Inquisitor."

"Solas." Repeated in the same timbre, same inflection, it begged mirth. The Herald gave a haughty nod as she said it. But her eyes danced, flicking from his to the circle mage's straight back as she spun once in the woman's wake, her own hands clasped behind her back, left elbow tucked tight to secure her books against her ribs.

He had to cover his mouth until they left. As soon as the door closed, he laughed, strangling the sound to near silence. Then he went to his desk and pulled out sheafs of fresh parchment to start planning the next section. He'd had a triptych in mind, originally. Chronicling the Breach, Haven and the origins of woman leading them. Looking around, he could already see more than that would be needed to fill the available space.

Smiling to himself, he thought, _Inspiration will come, surely._

* * *

Moonlight glinted on her blades as she moved in the dark atop one of the battlements. From the rookery balcony, Solas could barely make out any details, no matter how he strained. He'd come up here to enjoy the brisk wind of evening and spotted her.

Suddenly, a shouted oath came from her mouth, carrying in the night air. A sharp clang followed it, as though she'd thrown her weapons down. He could just make out her silhouette stomping over to the outer crenelations and leaning on them.

Frowning, Solas turned to head inside, down and out there to investigate. She stood much as he'd last glimpsed her, staring out past the walls of Skyhold. Her hands balled into fists over and over again, while the tense line of her shoulders bespoke distress of some sort.

Approaching with caution, he called, "Inquisitor?"

She started and half-turned. "Oh. Solas." He couldn't see enough of her expression to determine if he displeased her by intruding.

"May I ask what your daggers did to earn your ire?" Solas pointed to the discarded knives lying nearby, their edges chipped and rough from mishandling.

Her brow creased and she swung back to look out over the snowy vistas. "They're heavy."

Moving alongside her, Solas could now see the sweat that stained her leathers, and the beads of moisture that still rolled down her face, her arms. "Steel tends to be that."

She slouched and rested her chin in her hand, elbow braced on the wall. "They're heavy because I can't lift them for longer than a candlemark any more. I'm slow and clumsy. My lungs don't fill with air properly. Everything is just … off."

She sounded disgusted with herself. That and the yearning that filled her face as she looked out into the wilderness told him much.

"And you dislike being cooped up in Skyhold." He put his hands on the crenelation next to hers. "I thought it had been _your_ plan to, how was it put … 'lay low' for a few months, so Corypheus believes you dead."

Tugging her lengthening hair over her ears, she muttered, "Doesn't mean I have to like it. And … and I can't go out there like _this_." She swept a hand to indicate herself. "I can't fight. I can't run. Do you think a charging templar would be impressed that I now know which fork is for cake?"

His imagination supplied that humorous image, replete with Vivienne looking on with approval. It pulled a chuckle from his throat. Clearing his throat at her pointed glare, he said, "So, you're trying to recover some of that skill."

"That new healer, I forget her name, said, 'lung fever sometimes destroys the constitution of the patient.' As though I were not standing right in front of her. Took all I had not to put my fist through her face. Or try anyway. It'd probably just bounce off, weak as porridge." She looked lost for a moment, biting her lip.

Solas could see how loss of her weaponcraft shook the very core of her own identity. A feeling he understood all too well.

She continued, "Adan would have …. Who am I kidding? He'd have said something even more abrasive. But at least it wouldn't have been so detached." She snorted. "I'm starting to think I don't deal well with ambivalence."

"We lost a lot of good people at Haven," said Solas.

"I meant to stay in the cottage, I did. But the explosion …. Minaeve screamed, then the whole building rocked. I couldn't hear anything past the ringing. I got up and found my leathers and opened the door. Fire. Just fire everywhere. And at my feet, burnt flesh. It took me a moment to realize I was seeing Adan's face atop half a torso." She shuddered. "Minaeve, or what was left of her, lay a few feet further. Then I saw the dragon flying low over the valley and I just couldn't-I had to-"

Without shame, she scrubbed her cheeks free of the salty drops falling from her eyes. "Even useless and weak, there had to be something I could do."

Solas put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "You saved the rest of us, bought us precious time to escape."

She snorted a bitter denial. "I pulled a lever."

The apostate laughed. "You should hear Varric's theories on the subject of levers."

"I'm sure that dwarf could spin hay into gold, if he told enough stories."

"Yes," agreed Solas, humming in humor. Then he turned to her and said, "There is a new discipline, a new path for you, if you would but set yourself on it."

"What, as a mage? Do you know how the thought still terrifies me? Even conjuring those tiny flames as you showed me earlier had my heart racing," she said. "And not in a good way. More in a 'bash-my-head-into-a-wall-til-it-all-stops' kind of way."

"Fear is good, at the beginning. It will keep you from making foolhardy mistakes. But learning about it and using it, and thereby gaining confidence in using it, that fear turns into respect and perhaps, one day, even joy." He let a tendril of power flow to a fingertip and veilfire flickered into being there, an echo of the real fires he'd summoned for her during their lessons. This he split into four tiny shards and sent into a lazy spiral around each finger.

Then he extended that hand to her with a beckoning gesture. Laughing, she reached and those green motes jumped the gap between them and flowed from fingers up her arm to whirl around her head, alighting on her hair. A crown of emerald stars.

Smiling, he watched in wonder. Solas hadn't asked them to do that. Her own mana fed them now and set them to her own will, her own imaginings. The way her head kept turning as she tried to get a glimpse of them told him that she didn't control them consciously.

It spoke of formidable potential. An eagerness grew in him to see that potential realized someday.

The Inquisitor sighed as the veilfire dispersed. "So I guess it's staves and robes from here on out."

She sounded so disappointed that he laughed. "I, myself, am not partial to robes. They tend to get tangled around the legs, especially on long trips through rough terrain."

"Cloth, though. I love this coat, but the weight is killing me," she said, as she tugged at her heavy mail and leather jacket. "I suppose I'll have to see the quartermaster in the morning."

Solas straightened from his comfortable lean on the wall, brushing his hands over his tunic to shed stone dust. "I suppose you will. But, lethallan, don't give up on your martial training. Even if you cannot dance with the blades as you once did so nimbly, the conditioning will help with casting. Mages need stamina, too."

Lips pursed and brow raised, she said, " _Do_ they now?"

The blatant innuendo started a warmth climbing up his neck. Glad for the obfuscating dark, he replied, bold before her challenge, "Yes, they _do_."

Then he retreated before the conversation became dangerous. To his comfy couch in the rotunda and the peaceful embrace of the Fade.

Away from her intrigue that threatened to entangle.

* * *

 **A/N: Yay, Skyhold! Achievement unlocked: 'Found' a bloody great big castle in the middle of nowhere. Inquisitor: "Wut." Solas: "Oh, it was mi-I mean, the Fade. I saw it in the Fade." looooooool. Anyway, this burn be so slow. Sooooo slow. I love the slow burn. I hope you all find it just as entertaining. Gimme some feedback, should the mood strike you. Cheers.**


	17. Chapter 17

More and more refugees and recruits arrived weekly. They made camp down in the valley at the foot of the mountain hold. They came from all over, fleeing the destruction of the rifts to join the one organization that seemed to be able to do something about it.

Solas stood on the rotunda's upper balcony once more, savoring the daylight that poured through the patchy clouds above. And he just watched as black dots marched to and fro down there in the snowy expanses, a force growing and swelling into something grandiose and imposing.

Impressive.

Voices behind in the building pulled him from his reverie-

"-we must know. If this … Rasdalelan was at the Conclave, there must be proof somewhere." Leliana sounded strained and hurried, though her voice rose barely above a whisper.

 _Shadow killer?_ thought Solas, brows raising with interest.

"What if he or she died in the explosion?" said the Iron Bull, voice low as hers. "There wouldn't even be a body."

"Cullen has a detachment at the ruins excavating for remains to bury. I'll set some of my people there, too, to look for evidence." The Spymaster sighed. "The Dalish have been less than forthcoming on the matter. But then, it's not like I can just ask them directly."

"If I had someone like this working for me and they got killed or caught in the middle of a job, I'd disavow, too." Bull hummed in thought. Dry creaking told Solas that the Qunari shifted from foot to foot. "We have a few converts from the Dalish, but they don't talk about it either. When pressed, they seem to know nothing _and_ nearly crap their pants at the same time. It's weird."

"How do you know they aren't lying?" said Leliana.

"They were given to the Ben-Hassrath re-educators." A long, portentous silence fell between the two spies. Then Bull continued, "Suffice it to say, they aren't lying exactly. They don't know. They don't _want_ to know, because what they _have_ heard is just horrible enough to scare them."

"Maker …," said Leliana. "It's like some children's story."

"Just makes it more effective as a deterrent." Bull grunted, then said, "Well, it's food for thought. That's why I brought it to you when I got it."

"It was very prudent of the Inquisitor to bring you into the fold. If we hadn't compared notes, we'd never have known …." Her words trailed off.

"Just how big a target is painted on all our asses? Well, here's to hoping we find Rasdalelan's corpse with a big written confession pinned right to their lapel." He laughed. "Even that asshole couldn't have gotten away from the explosion."

"If he or she was even there."

"Point taken." With that, the Iron Bull retreated back down the stone steps.

Solas listened till the man's loud outburst of laughter and cajoling, and Dorian's subsequent chatter, filled the rotunda's lower levels.

"Oh, Solas," said Leliana, as she stepped out onto the balcony, raven on her glove. She shot him a veiled look of suspicion before smoothing her features to a pleasant neutral.

"Just enjoying the day, Spymaster. How does it find you?" Solas smiled to put her at her ease. He went back to gazing out at the mountains while keeping the dangerous human woman in his periphery.

Lacing a rolled up piece of parchment into the harness over the bird's chest, she said to it, "Talessa. Redcliffe." Then she threw it aloft. The raven croaked as it labored to gain altitude. Solas watched as it slowly dwindled and disappeared.

"They are very well trained," said Solas.

"Ravens are most intelligent. As bright as a small child." Leliana smiled, pleased with his compliment to her feathered charges.

"I confess, I had expected to clean up after them, or at least be wary of … unwelcome packages dropping on me from above."

Leliana laughed. "Believe me, that was the first thing I trained them not to do. No one wants a sudden pelting in their hair, or, er-" She stopped with an awkward glance toward his bald head.

He chuckled and ran a hand over his pate. "It's still unpleasant, regardless of whether or not one has long, flowing tresses."

"Ha. Well, so they now go to the compost heaps when they have … business." The Spymaster hummed in good humor. Then she frowned. "Now if I can only get my agents to stop teaching them dirty words."

"I _thought_ one said, 'Maker's balls' as I strolled by. I thought perhaps I imagined it." Solas laughed then. "Amazing."

A long comfortable silence fell. Then, Leliana turned to the apostate. "I assume you heard."

"If I did, it didn't have to do with _me_ , other than pique my curiosity," he replied, honestly.

She sighed, and leaned on the railing. "How long do elves live, do you think?"

"Depends on who you ask." Solas smiled, then said, "But since you are asking _me_ …. Mmm. Many are the tales of Elvhen immortality. If it once existed, it probably does not any more. The elves of today live perhaps a scant few decades longer than humans do."

Her expression turned dark. "There was an elf named Zathrian in the Brecilian Forest who'd claimed to have lived centuries. He used a blood magic curse to do it. A whole village of humans turned into werewolves and a forest demon imprisoned, just to prolong his life and attain his vengeance. The Hero of Ferelden stopped him."

Solas suspected a less one-sided story at the heart of her rant, but let it go … for now. "Does this Rasdalelan appear to have the same sort of longevity?"

"They've been operating for a long time. Since the fall of the Dales."

Intriguing.

"I must admit I've never heard of 'Rasdalelan.'" He propped a hip to the wall and folded his arms.

"There's not much to tell. Only … suspicions. Rumors. Superstition." Leliana pursed her lips as her thoughts turned inward. "A nobleman's son is kidnapped, ransomed, then found dismembered. The work of average thugs apparently. _But_. But, someone whispers, 'Rasdalelan.' A whole Dalish camp is razed to the ground, Keeper dead, First dead. 'Oooh, it's the Rasdalelan.' Seven Tevene magisters. At least three Ariquns. And, I suspect, at least one Divine. Countless others."

Solas thought about that for a bit. "Quite the body count for a single person. Are you sure it's not an organization?"

" _One_ person can keep a secret. Involve more and sooner or later, it's found out," said Leliana. "No. The way they are killed, the subtlety of it, the fact that they leave absolutely no trace, making you doubt there was even an assassin at all. All these are the hallmark of one killer."

"And you believe this 'Rasdalelan' was at the Conclave?"

"They seem to have a thing for collecting heads with crowns. With that many world leaders in one place, I cannot imagine they could resi-"

"Solas!" yelled a new voice, interrupting the Spymaster. The slap of bare heels on stone accompanied it. The Inquisitor swung into view, grabbing at the door frame to the balcony to stop her momentum. Her face flush with excitement, she turned to him and said, breathless, "We're going out!"

He couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. He teased, "Finally."

The Inquisitor squirmed as though she could not contain herself, her teeth flashing in feral glee. Turning to the human woman, she said, "Leliana. Did you straighten out that Kirkwall thing?"

"Yes, Inquisitor. Though it only lead to further complication. We have not found the true culprit yet."

Even that grim statement could not dampen the Inquisitor's high spirits. "Send me a raven. I'll have Varric with me. And Cass."

With a shout, she leapt atop the wall and scrambled like a squirrel down its stony face to the ground, sprinting off toward the tavern. He watched until she left his line of sight.

An amused smile in his periphery caught his attention. He turned a quirked brow in the Spymaster's direction. She watched him with undefinable emotions swirling around in her eyes. "She is quite something, is she not?"

Framed as a question, it was anything but.

Solas straightened and clasped his hands behind his back, deflecting, "She seems to have risen to the challenge of leading the Inquisition well enough."

"Hmmm. She shows a rare talent for it, though I know she hates it." Leliana's lips curled in mischief. "Though I was speaking more of her other charms."

He frowned. "I am not overly concerned with physical attributes. Charming or no."

"Liar," she teased, smiling to show she jested. "The wandering eye always lingers on things desired."

"Poetic. It seems there's something left of the bard in you after all," he said, diverting the topic to safer arenas.

Her grin grew wider. "You fence like a master, Solas. Are you sure you haven't dabbled yourself?"

How he wanted to laugh at this child and her 'subtleties.'

"If I have, I wouldn't deprive you of the challenge of finding out. What sort of gentleman would deny a lady her amusements?" Solas bowed over her hand, then turned toward the door. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I seem to have a campaign to prepare for."

Strange the fervor that came over him as he readied gear and staff and potions. Perhaps he, too, needed to get away from Skyhold for a time. It had been months, after all.

 _It's the wanderlust. That is all,_ he thought to himself. It had nothing to do with the infectious grin on the Inquisitor's face.

None whatsoever.

* * *

"-So, then I started to chew my thumbnail. A calculated gambit, as I was sure she was on to me by then," said the Inquisitor, evil smirk pulling at her lips. "But she didn't call me out. Her eyelid twitched something fierce though."

Varric slapped his thigh and laughed. "Oh, what I wouldn't have given to see that."

"I almost cracked that mask wide open. A couple more lessons will do it, I think." The Inquisitor sat back against a log with a satisfied hum. The fire crackled at their feet.

"You take an almost sadistic pleasure in tormenting Madame Vivienne," said Solas, fiddling with his pendant. "She is, after all, only trying to help."

"Help who? Me? Maybe. Help _herself_ by helping me? Certainly," she retorted. "People all look like ladders to her eye. Oh, I don't blame her. I just don't like the lie that's it's for _my_ benefit alone."

"That's as may be, but that does not mean she has nothing to teach," Cassandra said, whittling away at a scrap of wood on her side of the fire.

"Yes, mamae," sighed the Inquisitor. She leaned her head back and looked up at the curtain of stars that could just be seen through the treetops above. "It's good to be out here again. I don't even care that's it's in the middle of bloody, undead-infested Dirthavaren."

"You do seem happier out than in. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen you happy before," said Varric, pulling pipe from pack and lighting up.

"'Happy?' What is 'happy?' Contentment? Peace? Joy? Fleeting and fickle as the inconstant moon. Happiness is only a chemical byproduct, easily reproduced with herbs, tonics, even liquor, but …," she mused. Then she stretched, fingers reaching towards the heavens. "I feel … good. Right here, right now, I feel good."

Solas chuckled. "Would that all days could end so pleasantly."

"Don't think we'll need the tent tonight," said Varric, taking a deep puff off his pipe. "I'll take first watch." He stood and wandered off a few paces, hunkering down in the shadowy lee of an outward facing rock.

"Cass, you got second?" asked the Inquisitor. "I'll take dawn if Solas will take third."

He nodded.

"Yes, Inquisitor," Cassandra got up to unroll her bed onto the soft dirt under the bowers of Halin'sulahn. The rock wall at their back would be defensible enough. Enemies could only come from one direction. Solas felt confident he'd smell the fright of the nearby halla should a threat approach.

He wrapped his cloak about himself and pulled his hood over his eyes. The fur at his neck tickled his cheek, in a not unpleasant way.

The camp settled into a gentle and affable quiet.

Sometime later, something woke him. Not sure what exactly, Solas ventured a peek from out of the shadows of his hood. Varric slept a few feet away, soft snores rising into the night wind. The soft ringing of whetstone on steel told him Cassandra must be on watch.

But no sign of the Inquisitor. Had she slipped away?

Rolling into a crouch, he padded out of the camp, silent as a shadow. The staff he left beside his bedroll. He didn't really need it for simple self defense anyway. Solas's eyes sought out oblivious Cassandra, who could not see far from the firelight with her human vision. She did not seem alarmed, so perhaps the Herald only stepped away to answer the call of nature.

Suspicion poked at him though. He wandered deeper into the misty wood, ears pricked for sound, eyes keen for movement.

Low murmurs drew him to a collapsed section of wall, ruins from the aborted elven kingdom that used to be here. Two figures conversed under one of the arches.

Solas crept closer to hear-

"No," said the Inquisitor, quiet but adamant.

"You swore," a male voice said, harsh and unforgiving. The lilt in his accent gave him away for Dalish.

"I said no." Now her voice quavered, certainty breaking.

"So you'd be an oathbreaker on top of being the shem's pet savior?" The man sniffed in derision. "You have no choice. The obligation is unbreakable."

She sighed. "So you've said. Many times. Yet, here I stand and now I say _no,_ Keeper."

Angry, the man's shadowy silhouette thrust itself from the wall. "You will. Or I just _know_ something unfortunate will happen. A word in the wrong ear." Then his tone turned venomous. "I expect to see you tomorrow at our camp to the south. Follow the river, you'll see the aravels."

Then the Dalish elf left, quick as a dart, running through the green tangle.

Keeping low, Solas watched the Inquisitor walk out into the open, turning to consider a sconce set into the ruined wall. Her hand came out and, haltingly, in a gesture as familiar to him as breathing, she lit it. Veilfire flared into being in the iron bracket, illuminating her face in one burst. A wide grin of victory revealed itself in the glitter of her teeth.

Then her expression waxed pensive. Sorrowful, even.

She picked up a discarded torch from the ground and lit it with veilfire, turning to march down into the collapsed entryway of some old hold and out of sight. But he could still see the green light reflected off the stones.

Too curious to stop himself, he doubled back so he could seem to approach from the correct angle. Moving without stealth, he rambled over to stick his head over the rubble. "Inquisitor?"

"How is it you're always able to find me, Solas?" she asked, without looking up. A stone plinth in front of her had her attention. She kept waving the torch back and forth before it.

"I saw the light," he explained.

The curve of her cheek rose. He imagined that triumphant smile there again. "So you did. Say, is this a rune?"

He went over to investigate. "It is indeed a rune. Not a complete one though. It's part of a set."

"How do I-?" She flicked a hand at the plinth.

"Here," he said, moving to stand behind her, just at her left. He took her wrist in his left hand and pulled forth a small trickle of mana. The rune twisted on the stone, writhing, wanting to be understood. Solas gave it a magical prod with a wave, showing her how that released some of its trapped essence.

In the corner of his eye, he saw that grin again as with inner senses he felt her do the same thing. Her mana unfolded like stilettos, jabbing and stabbing. The Anchor acted as a focus. With an almost audible snap, the rune manifested, burning its meaning into their brains.

The Inquisitor laughed, eyes twinkling. "Wow."

He turned his face to take in the flushed cheek, the smile, the rapture. Her plush lips magnetized his attention, setting his heart to beating a faster tempo. Without meaning to, he leaned forward.

Her whole body froze against his. Snapping back to reality, Solas's eyes found hers, mere inches away. Wide and unblinking, they stared deep into his, brimming with chaotic emotion. Fear. Confusion. And something else.

Reeling, he set himself back a full step, looking away, feigning a sudden interest in the piles of stone and debris surrounding them. "I'm sure the rest are near. Perhaps not in the Halin'sulahn, but somewhere in the Exalted Plains. They are rarely set whole countries apa-"

Suddenly, she yanked him down by the hand.

Pulled right into her soft and yielding body, Solas gulped and managed, "What?"

"Sh!" Her eyes scanned the dark. With a wave, she extinguished the torch.

Then he heard the growls. His own eyes narrowed as he took in a deep breath. The stink of halla-fear tainted the air. They cowered in their briar-dens, surely.

"Wolves," whispered the Inquisitor. Her face tilted up higher, then tugged at his arm. "Come on."

With utmost stealth, she slunk along the forest floor. He matched her, stride for stride until they came to a wide tree trunk. Without hesitation, she shimmied up the tree. Following, Solas dug heel into bark, and made claws with his hands. Up and up until the lowest branches came within reach. Her hand grabbed his wrist and helped haul him into the canopy.

Huffing a pant, she pointed and ticked out five digits. Five wolves circled their tree, no doubt having caught their scent. Too late. From the safety of the treetop, Solas and the Inquisitor looked at each other and grimaced. She turned her head toward camp, worry creasing her brow.

"They will stay away from the fire," whispered Solas.

"What if they're demon-crazed like the ones in the Hinterlands? A little blaze wouldn't stop them." She took a deep breath to regain her wind.

Solas closed his eyes and reached out to test the flavor of the local magic. Blinking, he looked at her again. "No. They're just mad with hunger. Doubtless the rifts have frightened away most of the game."

"Hmmm." She reached behind to pull a thin rope from her belt pouch.

"What are you doing?" asked Solas, curious.

"You said they're hungry." She looped the rope around a sturdy branch and tied it off with expertise. Then she looped the remainder over a higher branch. "I'm going to feed them."

"You would feed _wolves_? Don't the Dalish have … superstitions about that?"

She ignored this, saying, "There's a halla in that thicket, if I'm not mistaken."

Her sight must be so sharp. Solas peered down into the indicated foliage, staring hard until filtered moonlight revealed a dark limpid eye and a snow-colored coat.

"I'm going to noose her, then I hope you have something lethal to throw at her. Something quick, painless as possible," she said, as she twiddled her fingers, indicating magic.

Solas gave a huffed chuckle. "I'll do my best."

With a complicated twist of her hands, she made a snare and showed him. "Poacher's knot. Usually better for birds and rabbits, but if she dies quick enough, the rope breaking shouldn't become an issue."

With slow and steady care, she lowered the loop through the gap in the thicket. The halla twitched as she seemed to notice something amiss. Solas and the Inquisitor froze, holding their breath. Then the beast settled again, surely having weighed staying where she might be safe and going out where a whole pack of wolves slavered and growled in the darkness.

The Inquisitor let out her breath slowly then flipped the noose over the halla's horns. Startled, the beast lunged to her feet and flailed, trying to free herself, but only tightening the snare. The Inquisitor grabbed the rope where it stretched over the higher branch and fell out of the tree, with a grunted, "Now!"

Her spare weight raised the halla up out of the thicket. Solas let loose with a carefully aimed lightning bolt. It shot down the animal's bellowing throat and stopped her heart. The halla went limp.

The wolves, having heard her cry, padded closer, snarling as they found the corpse and started tearing into it.

Hanging from the makeshift winch, the Inquisitor swung her legs back and forth, trying to get back in the tree. With the weight diminishing at the other end, the woman started to sink. She said, alarmed, "W-whoa!"

Solas leaned out and snagged her round the waist, pulling her back to safety. With a gasp, she stepped away from him and looked down on what they had wrought. The pack tore away at the carcass, voracious and needy.

"With luck, they'll get full and wander off soon." She hummed as she watched them. "We'll be able to get back down and go to camp, with the added bonus of no hungry wolves nearby. Win for everybody."

"Not for the halla," he commented, observing her.

"Kill one halla or five wolves. I think we made the better bargain."

"So it's a question of the greater good, then?"

She frowned. "'Greater good?' No. It's a question of expedience. Of efficiency. Of-of nature and survival. There's no such thing as greater good."

"Hmm."

"Why? Would you have done something else?" she shot back, showing some of that fire he'd remembered from before Haven's destruction. The one that had at first irritated him, but now … made her that much more interesting.

"No. I am merely curious about your reasoning." He smiled in the face of her ire. "But you are wrong. There are _always_ hungry wolves nearby."

As she turned away from him, he couldn't help but wonder at himself and his (unintentional?) double entendre. He raised a hand to his face, giving it a brisk scrub, feeling how the skin there seemed just a little warmer than usual. The memory of how she'd felt in his arms haunted him the entire time they climbed back down and sprinted back to camp.

"Where have you been?" demanded Cassandra as they both stepped into the firelight. Her gaze swung back and forth between them, full of annoyance that slowly turned into something else. A light, an dawning assumption made with a burgeoning smile.

And damn him if he didn't suddenly feel a little guilty of … _that_. Even though nothing like that had happened.

"There were wolves. Hungry ones. We led them away from camp," said the Inquisitor, brisk. She showed the Seeker her palms, covered in scratches and sap. "There might have been a tree involved."

"I can't help but notice how there is only sap on the _front_ of your clothing," said Cassandra, with her smile that refused to just go away.

Solas rolled his eyes, though his imagination painted a picture of the Inquisitor pressed face first against the bark, arching, moani- He cut himself off with a shake and a frown.

Feigning a scandalized gasp, the Inquisitor said, "Why, Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast! Maker wash your mouth out with _soap_!"

That smirk fell off the Seeker's face in an instant. "How did you know my full name?"

With eyes narrowing over a wide and sinister grin, the Inquisitor plopped onto her own bedroll. "Leliana has reports on everyone and lately, I've been doing a _lot_ of interesting _reading_."

"Shit," said a groggy Varric, rolling onto his side to peer at her. "Just when I thought she couldn't get any scarier …."

"Besides, there's sap on the front of _his_ tunic, too, and that would just be … awkward." The Inquisitor thrust a thumb at Solas as her words trailed off. Everyone turned to look.

He sighed before their scrutiny. "That is not helping, lethallan."

A thousand lines of prose spun into existence in Varric's eyes. Cassandra's mouth dropped into an 'o.' The Inquisitor gave him a sheepish grin of apology.

Solas huffed and said, firmly, "There were wolves. We climbed a tree to get away from them. When they glutted on the halla we felled, they left. We came back to camp. That is all that happened."

Varric rolled back over with a grumbled, "Way to be a killjoy, Chuckles."

Cassandra's eyebrows settled into a severe downward arch. "Well, if you are both quite done, it's Solas's turn at watch."

The Seeker made her way back to her bedroll and fell into it with little grace, pulling her blanket up over herself. Within seconds, she stilled in slumber.

Shaking his head, Solas crouched by his pack to dig out his spare tunic. He saw the Inquisitor do the same across the fire. Then he stood and walked out past the circle of firelight and around a nearby tree, where he changed. His bare skin prickled pleasantly in the cool night air, and the pendant banged against his sternum as he wrestled his way into the woolen overtunic and jacket.

Settled, he leaned against the tree with his staff held in the crook of his arm. Unbidden, his other hand found the tree trunk and ran over the rough bark there. Coarse and knobbly, the ridges flaked under his questing digits. Thoughts he'd kept away through sheer force of will started to bleed in around the edges, filling his mind with heated exchanges of teeth and tongue and lips. Hands and hunger. A throbbing heat started low in his belly.

Stirring the blood in a way he'd never felt before. Not once in his long life.

He turned to lean around the tree and peek back into camp. His eyes found her. She lay on her side facing him, poking at the fire with a stick. Her eyes gleamed like silvered discs. Then they closed. She rolled onto her back and stretched, a full body stretch that went from fingertip to pointed toe. Her shirt hiked up to flash a pale, toned midriff. A yawn opened her mouth huge, cavernous, ending with an almost feline lick of the chops.

Then she, too, stilled and Solas felt he could breathe again.

He rolled back to face forward, letting his head rest on the trunk. Biting the inside of his cheek hard, he tried to banish whatever fancy had him clutched in its talons. When drawing blood failed, he banged the back of his head on the tree. Once, twice, then again.

"Fool," he whispered at himself. "It's not right. Leave it."

He reasoned further in silence, _She fascinates you, that is all. A bright and surprising curiosity like all the curiosities in this bleak world. A thing that will fade away in time. Do not forget your purpose._

 _She is part of that purpose._ argued the traitorous voice within.

 _You are using her._

 _She is not unused to being used and uses in turn._

 _That does not make it right._

 _What harm a simple dalliance?_

Then both voices quailed at the ramifications, the possibilities.

 _Every harm possible. It is dangerous. Do not lose your way._

 _Besides, when have_ we _ever managed 'simple?'_

With a sad sigh, he buttoned up his feelings into a tiny box and put it with all the other tiny boxes in the basement of his mind. Perhaps, when he had the orb in hand ….

 _No_. He scowled. _There is no room for hope of that sort._

His thoughts circled like sharks, debating, chiding, even name-calling well into the morning. A light touch on his arm made him jerk to attention. He looked up to see the pre-dawn glow just starting to light the eastern sky.

"You didn't wake me," said the smiling Inquisitor, leaning gingerly on the tree next to him. Their shoulders did not quite touch, but her nearness shook him still.

Solas leaned away and stood upright. "I apologize, lethallan. I was not tired."

Her eyes picked apart his odd behavior, he saw. Seeing too much, as usual. They flitted away from him to look at their surroundings. "Oh."

"I would welcome a moment's respite, if you'd like to take over," said he, stepping one more step away.

"Of course," she replied, turning from him to look out over the forest. The coolness in her expression made the raw ache in his chest flare. He swung aside before he did something unwise.

As he walked away, Solas heard-

"You have sap on the back of your head. And on your coat. Just thought you should know."

Chagrin filled him as his hand flew up to wipe at his scalp. The sticky substance refused to budge. Despite his earlier resolve, he could not help but turn back. She lifted a brow in his direction, though her eyes did not seek his. Her mouth stretched to one side in a smirk.

Cassandra, crouched and rolling her belongings back up, lifted her gaze as he rushed by. Solas suppressed the urge to sidle and walked past her with head held high. He ignored the Seeker's soft snort as he blotted liquid from his waterskin onto a rag and scrubbed at the offending sap.

Varric eyed him as well, as the dwarf kicked dirt onto the coals. His mouth opened to emit a snide, "So-"

"Not. A. Word," said Solas. If the Inquisitor snorted a laugh at that point, Solas disavowed any knowledge of it.

* * *

 **A/N: Whew! Long chapter is long. Dang. Well, I couldn't find an earlier natural break to bring it to a close. Anyway, party banter FTW! I love Bioware's party banter. It's probably in the top five reasons I play their games. They breathe so much life into their characters. It's so hard not to love every single one. So, hope everyone's enjoying it. I've said it before, but I can't thank you all enough for the kind reviews and praise.**

 **Cheers!**


	18. Chapter 18

"Just, uh, wait here, everyone. I'll-I'll be right back," said the Inquisitor, more nervous than Solas had ever seen her.

The brightly colored aravels roosted in the sun next to the stream. Their sails snapped on the light breeze. Dalish elves, less than two handfuls, clustered around them.

Cassandra, Varric and Solas exchanged a look as an older elf approached, meeting the Inquisitor halfway. To Solas's eye, it looked nothing less than a parley on a battlefield.

"Andaran Atish'an, my sister," the man said, confirming Solas's suspicion that this elf had come to meet their leader in private last night. Though his pleasant mien seemed far removed from the vitriol of before. "It is good to see another of the People in this place from which we all came."

"Keeper Hawen," answered the Inquisitor, shifting from foot to foot. Solas couldn't see her face, but he read the tension in her shoulders well enough.

"Come, let us talk in private. We have much to discuss. Your people can rest here, though they must make camp outside the perimeter." The Keeper looked upon them, pausing on Solas. The apostate read a flash of intense disdain there, in his eyes. It rankled.

He returned it with mild disinterest, saying without words, _I would not even care to piss on you if you were on fire, friend._

The Keeper's brows beetled, then smoothed as he turned to lead the Inquisitor into their camp.

"Should we just let her go in there alone?" asked Varric, in a mumbled aside.

"They are Dalish. Her people. Surely she is safe among them," said Cassandra, though the way she glared after them made Solas think perhaps she also saw something amiss in the Keeper's attitude.

"I believe she is safe enough." Solas hummed. "Should we try trading with them in the meantime?"

"I do have a lot of trinkets to unload on some unlucky suckers," said Varric.

"Do not damage the Inquisition's reputation among these elves, Varric," stated the Seeker, shifting her pinning stare to the dwarf.

"Fine, fine. I'll just stop short of actually cheating them then." The rogue stepped forth and called to a passing sentry, "Hey! Do you lot have anything like a merchant around?"

Escorted by guards into camp, Solas took the opportunity to look around. He'd been in such camps before, but always briefly. The Dalish do not welcome outsiders among them, least of all 'flat-ears.' Those they view city-elves and willing servants to the humans who subjugate them.

The next few hours filled with a growing tension around the band of three interlopers. Glares and muttered comments came from every side, every face. Except one. A youth looked after them with a sort of yearning on his marked face.

He seemed to gather his bravery and stepped forward to address Solas, "Is it true your Inquisitor can close the rifts?"

"By strange circumstance, the power to do so has been gifted to her, yes," answered Solas, wary.

The youth shuffled, then blurted, "How does one join this Inquisition?"

Surprise lifted Solas's brows. "You wish to leave the Dalish?"

"Well, no. Yes. I mean, I'm Dalish wherever I go, right? I just feel like I can do some good-"

"Loranil!" interrupted an elven woman, her face pulled in annoyed consternation. She pulled him aside by one elbow. "It is not your place!"

"But-"

"First that fool, Valorin, then Tavin with his, and now you?" She wheeled on Solas and the others. "You don't get to steal our youths away for your stupid shem crusades."

Cassandra's mouth opened, "I assure you, madame-"

Incensed at being spoken to by a human, the elven harridan started to storm away with the youth in tow.

Rebellion stoked at his core, Solas said, "Boy."

Fighting the yanking at his elbow, the youth turned.

"Loranil, was it? Speak to the Inquisitor if you have a moment to do so. If you are earnest, then a path will open," said the apostate. The hopeful light in the boy's eyes warmed Solas. He smiled with kindness at Loranil, who then let himself be dragged away.

Just then, the Inquisitor stepped down from the Keeper's aravel, blinking in the sun. Her vallaslin stood out stark against her pale face. Keeper Hawen followed her, giving her a meaningful look before returning to his duties.

Giving a nod, she walked toward her companions, looking down at her feet the whole time. Solas frowned. He couldn't understand why she looked so … cowed.

She rolled her shoulders and lifted her gaze to meet theirs. "We've been asked to do a few favors for this clan."

"Do we really have time-?" started Cassandra.

"Yes. We do." The Inquisitor's lips drew into a grim line. Then she turned and marched out of the Dalish camp. They followed in her wake.

To some grumbled comment the Seeker made, Varric said, "Look. How many times did she drop everything to go help some stupid villagers in the Hinterlands? What's the difference? They were human? Andrastien? Come on, Seeker."

The woman scowled, then said, "I-I see your point."

"You should. It's right here, on top of my head." Varric smirked and pointed to his very round head, with its short top knot adorning it. "You tall people should have a very good view of it."

Mystified, the Seeker shook her head and turned her gaze to the Inquisitor, walking on ahead of them, shoulders hunched.

Their leader stopped near one of the finger-like protrusions of rock that littered this part of the plains. She called back to them, "It's half a day's walk to Var Bellanaris, so we'll camp for the rest of today til tomorrow. I don't want to be there at night at all. No wandering. We'll have eyes on us all night. Walk two hundred paces out and you're just asking for an arrow in the throat. Won't need a watch though, so at least that's one nice thing."

"Optimist," accused Solas, as he looked around the grassy expanse.

She huffed a dry chuckle as she set her pack down. "Tent, or no?"

"With 'eyes' watching us all night, how will I maintain my virtue? My precious chastity?" said Varric, holding his bedroll up to his chest like a shield.

"I agree. I'd rather not change my clothes before prying eyes," Cassandra agreed. "We use the tent."

Where Solas would have protested cramming the four of them into one tent, the only tent they could bring considering they'd traveled here on foot, he didn't voice a word, for he did not want to explain _why_ he did not want to share close quarters with a certain someone.

They chatted amicably while setting everything up. The tent, once assembled, just held all four of their bedrolls side by side. He should be fine as long as he tucked into his, tight as a drum.

After a dinner of field rations, they soon all lay in the canvas tent, staring at the ceiling. Varric sighed and said, "Fuck."

The Inquisitor laughed, soft, on Solas's right. "I'm not tired either."

Solas chuckled. "It is the quiet. It's been an … uneventful day."

"True. I had expected more threats to waylay us as we journeyed. Venatori, red templars. Demons." Cassandra echoed Varric's sigh.

"There were a couple. Demons, I mean," said Varric.

The Inquisitor snorted. "They were more interested in chasing halla than us. I wonder what the hell they'd do with them once they caught them. It's not like they eat."

"Spirits have been known to try," said Solas. "They usually fail at it, not understanding how teeth work to chew it, or stomachs to digest it. But they are ever willing to try anything we corporeal beings do."

"So the sharp teeth are just for show," said Varric.

"You expect to be terrified, so they are terrifying." Solas thought for a second, then continued, "We imagine them monstrous, so they are monsters. The less complex ones work hard to live up to our expectations. Losing our fear of them could be as simple as shining a light in a dark corner and seeing the beast lurking there was just a coat-rack all along."

He paused, looking over at his silent companions.

One of the Inquisitor's eyes popped open and looked at him. "Damn, that almost worked."

Cassandra and Varric snorted a laugh. Solas pretended to fume, though a twitch at the corner of his mouth belied his scowl. "Well, that's the last story you get from me, da'len'en."

"Oooh, stories. We could do that," Varric said, wide hands coming up to steeple over his chest. "But let's make it interesting. Let's tell untrue stories."

" _Untrue_ stories? What in the name of the Maker are 'untrue stories?' Fiction, like your Hard in Hightown?" said Cassandra.

"Sort of, but not quite. You start with you and some supporting cast if you like, then you tell a story where the opposite thing happened than what really happened." Varric hummed in amusement, then said, "Here. I'll start.-

"I am Varric Tethras, wayward princeling of the dwarven merchant guild. Straight arrow, but misunderstood. One time, Hawke and I went to the Blooming Rose. We found a very … helpful blood mage there who hadn't been seducing young templars. She politely refrained from trying to make Hawke cut his own throat and volunteered to help us find young Keiran. Hawke didn't subsequently have, ahem, relations with her."

"Ugh, so this is what disillusionment feels like," said Cassandra, as the others chuckled.

"You still love him. Don't lie," said Varric. "Your turn, Seeker."

"Um, I'm not sure-"

"Just try it," Varric coaxed.

"Alright, I will try." She hemmed and hawed for a moment, before saying, "I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker. Once, as a small child, I found my mother's coronet. It didn't sparkle like a million little suns. I didn't put it on and twirl before the mirror. She didn't catch me and punish me for tracking mud from the training yard all over her fine rugs and things."

"Is it odd that I find that both horrifying and adorable?," said the Inquisitor.

"Not exactly imaginative, but a good effort all around," said Varric. "Your turn, Sticks."

After a long, pregnant pause, she began, "There once was a little girl. And all the clans loved her. She got to ride halla and sing with the wind sisters of north mountain. Her mother and father rejoiced the day she earned her vallaslin. Her friends wept. She was happy for all the days of her life."

A long silence reigned after the wistful recitation. Solas turned his head to see her too bright eyes staring steadfast and unblinking at the tent's ceiling. On the other side of her, he could just see Varric's pinched face.

The dwarf said, "Well, that's … something. This seems to have taken a sharp turn into Serious-town. I didn't mean-"

"I believe it's my turn, Varric." Solas gave a little hum before saying, "I am Solas. In Elvhen, it means pride. I was and am prideful. Then one day, a mirror appeared before me. It showed me the best and worst of myself. I liked it. I hated it. It impressed me, humbled me, disappointed me and made my arrogant self feel vindicated at times. But the longer I stared, the ... 'more' like me it was. I hadn't been projecting my own preconceptions at all. Then one day, I realized it wasn't a mirror. It was a window. I didn't then reach out."

"Wow." Varric's voice came out soft and a tad reverent.

A hand fumbled for his under his blanket. Solas laced his fingers with the Inquisitor's, giving her digits a warm squeeze. "I broke the form near the end, but only for story cohesion."

"No, no. It's fine," said Varric. "I've got one more. Then we can sleep. Cassandra needs to hear it, I think-

"There was a man, a healer, in Lowtown named Anders. Anders hated cats. Just _hated_ them. I've never met a grown man who hated cats more. He hated the time I brought him a kitten. He didn't coo or fuss over the little darling. He didn't feed it from his own tiny food supply while his belt got tighter and tighter and his bones showed a little more everyday. He didn't give it back to me to give it a better home when he went to go do whatever it was he felt he needed to go do. I didn't find a good home for it with a nice lady in hightown … _afterward_. It didn't miss him. No one misses him."

Varric concluded his story with a sniff and a surreptitious wipe of sleeve over damp eyes.

The Seeker let out a pained sigh and whispered, "Varric-"

"Go to sleep, Seeker," the dwarf whispered back, rolling onto his side away from her.

So much pain in this one tent. It tore at him in the deep places. Solas closed his eyes to try to hold it back, or hold it in. But there was a comfort, too. No one endured life unscathed. A cherished sort of camaraderie existed in that.

Then every thought got blasted out of his head by the slim body next to his stretching out and out, feet scraping the canvas wall, fingertips straight skyward. His eyes popped open without his meaning them to, latching themselves onto her sleepy countenance, her arching back, her tousled hair. Another huge yawn took place and then she rolled toward him onto her side. Her face lay not six inches away, eyes already closed in sleep. Her breath, sweet with herbs, brushed against his sensitive ear.

A full body shudder wracked him with each soft exhale. Solas himself rolled, until he faced the tent wall. It didn't help. Now she breathed that hot breath on the back of his neck. It rolled down his collar like a sensual zephyr.

Fighting his body's reaction, he pulled the blanket up over his head, ignoring how that left his bare feet uncovered. Uncomfortable, he wrestled with attaining sleep, finally achieving something like it near dawn.

* * *

 **A/N: Yay, update day! I'm convinced I get more excited about it than whoever reads this. lol. Anyway, hope yous guys are keeping warm (all of yous in the northern hemisphere anyway, for anyone in the southern, stay cooooool). Weather around where I live is doing its typical flip-flopping tween warm and cold. Like it do. It won't settle on winter til Jan, probably.**

 **Ooooh, tomorrow's my birthday, too. So updating is like a present to myself. Woot! Tis a fun hobby that I greatly enjoy and I get to share it. So, double enjoyment.**

 **All critique is welcome. I have a tumblr now (bluekrishna101). I don't know if I will share any of this fic on there yet, but I have a new drawing wip on there that's slowly coming together, if any of you are interested.**

 **:D**


	19. Chapter 19

His skin tingled as a barrier sprang into being in their midst. Solas turned and nodded approval to the Inquisitor at his side. Sweat beaded her brow as she swung her daggers in slow, blazing arcs around her.

Thus did intent equal form, and then flow into _expression_.

Magic at its heart.

That she fought convention with her choice of weapons cost her, he saw. Her limbs trembled, her breath came in sawing heaves. She worked twice as hard just to gather the mana into the correct configuration. Yet still she found the energy to plant a flaming dagger in a nearby wisp.

Solas watched in satisfaction as a rage demon strode through all three of his fire mines. Each exploded in turn, damaging the wayward spirit till it disintegrated into shards.

The Inquisitor held aloft her Anchor and shouted. With a wrenching, downward gesture and a blast of green light, a foggy vortex opened in the air before them. The vacuum dragged everyone forward a step, but the demons shrieked and dwindled, their essence tearing away into that portal. It snapped shut with an ear-popping boom.

Solas stood straight and raised his brows. He turned to the sagging Inquisitor and said, " _That_ is new."

From where she knelt in the dirt of this graveyard, she laughed a tired wheeze. "I forget no one was with me in the ice caverns. I first discovered the mark did that there."

He strolled over to her and crouched, taking her marked hand in his. Prodding at the Anchor with digits and magic, he examined it and saw how the power had entwined itself all through the spirit of the woman on the ground before him. It fed her, it fed _on_ her. Making the whole more than the sum. A truly symbiotic relationship had formed.

No wonder Corypheus hadn't been able to rip it from her.

The Anchor shouldn't have bonded like that. At best, she, a mere mortal, should have only been able to tap into the tip of the iceberg while the rest stayed dormant. He worried for what would happen to her should the whole of it awaken before he found a way to retrieve it.

"Is something the matter?" she asked, breaking him out of his grim thoughts.

He smiled and dropped her hand. "The bindings are stable." _For now._

"Good." She stood on shaky legs and looked around. "Do you think Keeper Hawen would be angry if we robbed the graves here?"

Standing himself, he turned a sharp look on her. And saw she only jested. Albeit weakly.

She smirked at him. "Yes. I am only kidding. Mostly. I'm tempted to do it just to be the one to tell the Keeper, though. 'Your sacred burial grounds? I sort of smashed them.'"

"Morbid," said Varric, walking near to stand with them. "I'd rather not go rooting through old bones if it's all the same to you."

"The dead deserve their peace," agreed Cassandra.

"Well, then, they should be polite enough to stay in the damn ground," the Inquisitor growled. She turned and shook her fist at the offending caerns. "You hear me? Stay dead!" With hands on hips, she peered around, as though waiting, listening for a retort. Then she snapped her fingers and spun on one heel. "That's right."

Varric laughed as they all followed her out of that gloomy place and into the sunny, grassy slopes of lower Halin'sulahn. Halla bounded over the rolling hills, between rock spires.

Solas walked at a sedate pace, following with half a mind as he used the rest to think.

"Solas," started the Seeker. "Does it happen often? I mean, someone suddenly becoming a mage?"

He turned to consider her question, nodding. "It is not as rare as you might think. Many have dormant abilities that remain undiscovered. Sometimes, for their whole lives."

Cassandra stroked her chin as she frowned in pensive thought. "Cullen said something similar. I must say, there was quite the row about it in the war-room when she told us. I might have … accused her of hiding it from us all along."

" _You_? Accusing someone?" snarked Varric, sarcasm dripping from his tone. "Perish the thought."

"Varric," she started, with a scowl for the dwarf. Then she sought to explain, "I couldn't imagine it just happening. She'd been ill, then suddenly she was a mage. I thought I'd just handed the Inquisition over to an apostate elf, possibly a maleficar if she could deceive me so easily."

Then the Inquisitor _hadn't_ told them about the demon. Interesting. And prudent.

"Magic is, by nature, unpredictable. It isn't often a choice when it manifests, how it manifests. It is the embodiment of chaos. Change without form."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?" Cassandra grimaced. "The last thing we need is more chaos."

"Chaos isn't inherently evil. Or good. It's the heartbeat of innovation, the spark of imagination, the very seed of creation. Without it, no new thoughts could be born, no revelations or epiphanies to set aflame the desire to grow, to learn." Solas hummed to himself, then continued, "It is for one with the will to do so to impose order on chaos and shape something of it. It is not chaos's fault that some would fashion a knife of it to stab others, just as few think to credit chaos for the idea of practical things like windmills and the wheel. It is a balance of order and chaos that keeps the world spinning."

"A lecture better saved for our afternoon nap," said the Inquisitor, drawing a laugh from dwarf and Seeker.

Solas chuckled. "The Seeker asked. I try to give a complete answer."

"Except when you're feeling cryptic," she accused, throwing a look over her shoulder at him.

He smiled a secretive smile. "Except when I'm feeling cryptic."

Night fell rapidly and once again, he found himself lying in the dark, trying not to think about the warm body next to his. Varric snored, a pleasant, soft bass thrum punctuating the silence. Cassandra also murmured senseless noises into the night from where she slept furthest from Solas.

He sighed and turned to see the Inquisitor watching him with eyes closed to heavy-lidded slits. On her side, like the night before, she lay with her knees curled into her chest.

Her teeth worried at her bottom lip and she whispered, "Why doesn't Dorian remember what happened in the Fade?"

Rolling up on his own side, he faced her with head propped up on hand, and answered just as soft, "Why don't _you_? You said yourself that not all of the memories remained clear."

"Yes, but I remember _some_ of it. Dorian remembers less every time I talk to him." She sighed.

"I'd say the vagueness of the disparate memories probably have the same root cause," he said.

She thought for a moment. "Cole."

"Yes. The spirit of Compassion probably thought to save you unnecessary strife."

"When he said he could make people forget him, I didn't think to ask if he could just erase people's memories." A frown pulled at her lips. "Do you think he'd return them to me if I asked?"

"Why cut yourself just to bleed?" he asked, gentle.

"Ask a healer the benefits of leeches and bleedings."

She said it so sourly that he chuckled. "I'm surprised _you_ did not take that path, knowing herblore as you do. Vir Atish'an? The way of peace?"

Stormclouds gathered in her eyes as she said, "Those who know best how to heal, know best how to harm."

Then, she looked past him, into the middle distance. "I can't stand not knowing. I know so little. Why was I in the care of a demon? Why did I call her 'mamae?' Where is my real mother? Is she dead? Or did she give me to the demon, as a sacrifice or something?"

Solas wondered why she did not ask _him_ for a moment, then realization dawned. She thought Cole had erased most of his memory, too. It was only logical. Though logic didn't soothe the sudden stinging in his chest.

He debated telling her for a long time, wondering if any good would come of it. But then he thought, _What will happen if she finds out I alone cannot be affected by Cole's unique power? How far will she go to find out why?_

Solas just kept the grimace from his face with supreme effort. He must think on it some more before making any rash decisions.

A small tug at his neck grabbed his attention. He looked down to see her fingers running over the teeth of the pendant that lay on his blanket.

"Why a _wolf_ jawbone?" she asked.

"It was a gift."

"Ooooh, from a lover perhaps?" she teased.

"Haha, no. A friend. A … mentor." _A beloved enemy._

"That's no fun." She pouted, then continued, "Why is it black?"

Watching her touch it drew a shiver down his spine. He answered, "It is very old. More stone than bone now."

Her brow crinkled as her eyes slipped shut. "Magic?" She yawned, huge, but hid it behind her hand. A courtesy.

"Only of the mundane kind."

She mumbled something as she nuzzled deeper into her bedroll. Her hand still played over the pendant, though from her deep and regular breathing, he knew she slept.

Her hair lay across her cheek, much longer than it had been when they'd first met. It hid most of her visage. The full moon outside filtered in through the canvas, throwing a strange, diffused glow across her pale shoulders and neck. He wanted to see her whole face bathed in that effervescent light.

Fingers reached before he willed them to, stopping just short as he finally saw them there, hanging mid-air. They shook as he stared, darting forward then back. Finally, he forced that hand into a fist and brought it down to pound once on his thigh.

Solas rolled onto his back and breathed deep to steady himself. This time, he thought to keep his cloak on and pulled the hood up over his head so her breath, at least, could not enfeeble or beguile him. Then he closed his eyes and sought the Fade.

* * *

 _A barefaced child, nearly adolescent, smiled as she rolled sachets of herbs into bundles, tying each one with a single loop of red twine. One batch done, she bobbed her shorn head once in satisfaction. Her cunning fingers reached for bowls of greenery, pulling a few from each, counting and measuring with wrist-widths, thumbs, finger-lengths. Picking, peeling, paring until each group of nine had exactly the same contents._

 _Then came the string. Quick hands cut blood-colored twine into precise, equal lengths with the flash of a belt knife._

 _Solas watched from the corner of the hut as the girl worked. Saw her head start to turn, a fraction at a time, until the window to her left could just be glimpsed in her periphery. Her wide grey eyes snuck peeks out the glass every few seconds._

 _He turned, too, and saw with amazement that the scenery outside changed with every glance. A mountain pass, a forest glade, a shimmering desert. Scores of vistas marched before his gaze, some he recognized._

 _A sharp hiss pulled his attention back to the girl. Shadowy, disembodied hands lifted her by one wrist. One let loose to free the girl's knife. In a glittering arc and spray of blood, that knife opened a long slice along the girl's arm, just behind the elbow. Her mouth opened in a silent scream._

 _The dream imparted a grave importance to silence in pain to him. A harsher punishment for not bottling sound lurked close, a terror unseen but very much present._

 _A warped and aged voice whispered, 'The price of distraction is pain. Do it again and I will cut the tendon and send you back to the Clans, less than useless.'_

 _The hands dropped the girl back onto her feet. She collapsed for a moment, clutching her wound, then stood to grab a nearby folded rag. Careful not to dribble blood on her work, she filled a leather bowl with hot water and tossed some herbs in it. With a grimace, she set her rent elbow in the steaming liquid. Even he could see how the bleeding soon stopped._

 _Her other hand pulled a curved needle from a belt pouch. This she put between lips as once again her hand dipped for thread. Black floss slipped over the needle's eye. She knotted the long end, then took the needle to the cut in her skin. The skin around her eyes wrinkled in pain as she pulled and pushed the point through flesh to knit the skin back together._

 _With another deft knot, she cut the remainder of the thread free, leaving a clean row of 'X's behind. A quick smear of ointment and the girl went back to work, washing her hands before handling the herbs again. Her attention remained fixed on her task this time._

 _Lesson learned._

 _Shaking his head, Solas turned and strode out of the Inquisitor's dream. He'd not wanted to pry, but the force of her imagery had sucked him in before he'd known it._

 _As though banishing the desire demon had unbottled a flood of dreamstuff. At first, a trickle. A tiny candle flame. He'd only just been aware of it on the edge of his dreamscape. Then over time, it became a bonfire._

 _He'd resisted til now …. No matter. His own memories and dreams awaited._

 _Solas returned to them with heavy heart and questions he wondered if he dared ask._

* * *

 **A/N: Update for all you fine people out there. May it please you. Well, Solas and his dream peeping. It's such a nice little plot device when you're only working from a single POV. Gives me a chance to rummage around in other people's heads and whatnot. Anyway, hope everyone's holidays are going well. Gimme some feedback if you want.**


	20. Chapter 20

Keeper Hawen waited at the perimeter for their return. No doubt his scouts told him of the group's approach. The Inquisitor stalked up to him after gesturing her companions to stay back. Their low murmuring defied Solas's attempts to eavesdrop.

The Inquisitor shook her head violently at something the older elf said, her head craning away from him in disbelief. A stern mutter from Hawen and her head dropped once more, shoulders hunching up toward her ears. Then he handed her something, and put a hard hand on her shoulder. From the way she flinched, his touch jarred her.

Solas's eyes narrowed, the urge to step forward and remove the Keeper's offending paw at the wrist making his leg muscles twitch.

Hawen's lips parted around three syllables. Solas thought he almost made them out before the Keeper turned about and walked back into the Dalish camp. At a jerk of Hawen's head, Loranil, who'd been waiting at the aravels, burst into a sprint. The youth slid to a stop by the still-as-a-statue Inquisitor, eagerness in every line of his body.

He chattered at her as she turned. That something Hawen gave her hidden in one closed fist. Peering close, he saw just the edge of something that looked soft, some type of material. She wadded it up and stuffed inside her linen coat. Head down, she walked back toward Solas and the others. Occasionally, she'd nod at something the boy said-

"-still can't believe Keeper Hawen is letting me do this." He almost bounced in his fervor.

The thin, irritated smile she aimed the youth's way signaled the impending end of her patience.

Varric stepped forward with his patented friendly grin. "Kid. Step over here a moment. What's your name?"

The young man jumped to the dwarf's side. "Loranil, Ser Tethras. I've read all your novels. The Tale of the Champion is my fav-"

Varric lifted both hands and waved up and down, gesturing for the boy to calm himself. With an easy smirk, he said, "Always happy to meet a fan. Hey, listen. We'll take you to Skyhold at the end of the week when we're done with some business up north. You know where the Guardians are?"

Loranil, confused, said, "Yes, north then east along what the shems call the Path of Flames."

"That's the one." Varric clapped a hand on the boy's arm and chuckled at the way that flustered the starstruck young man. "Wait for us there at our base camp. Give the Inquisition soldiers this token and they'll feed you, take care of you." He handed a large coin stamped with the radiant eye to Loranil.

"Can I not travel with you and your Inquisitor-?" His words trailed off before their blank stares. The rapid shaking of the Inquisitor's head behind the boy grabbed their attention. Her lips framed a very definite 'no.'

With barely a flick of his eyes to her, Varric said, in warmest nonchalance, "Them's the breaks, kid. You wanna be a recruit, you gotta do what recruits do."

"Recruits follow orders. Report to the base camp," commanded Cassandra, implacable but with an air of faith in the youth. Confidence imparted.

Loranil straightened, giving a Dalish salute. The pride in his eyes grew, fit to bursting. Then he turned and bowed to their leader. "Inquisitor."

Then off he ran, racing over bole and heather. They all turned to watch his flight.

The Inquisitor sighed and said, "Why do I feel so old now?"

They all laughed. Cassandra drawled, "You're the youngest here. Imagine how _we_ feel."

Solas laughed. "Indeed."

The Inquisitor hissed and flashed her teeth. "As though any of you have that many seasons on me. Where are you hiding your grey beards? In your packs perhaps?"

The apostate shook his head, _You have no idea …._

"Beards aren't really my thing," said Varric, scrubbing his jaw. "Why conceal a jawline as gorgeously chiseled as mine?"

"Twould be a crime most heinous," said Solas.

"Careful or I might think you're flirting with me, Chuckles." Varric shot him a wink.

"One needn't be attracted to men to see what is attractive, Ser Tethras. I am a student of aesthetics, after all." Solas tamped the dirt at his feet with the butt of his staff.

"'Not attracted to men?' What a thing to say to a guy you shared a tent with for the last few days." The dwarf tsked. "You've gone and hurt my feelings."

"C'mon. Let's get out of here before they ask us to do something else, like … collect great bear hides or something." With a circling gesture, the Inquisitor lead them away from the Dalish camp. Up north, where the undead waited for them in the Western Ramparts and beyond.

It took a full day's worth of fighting to clear out the shambling corpses in just one of the entrenched camps. Arcane horrors guarded the mass graves from which the dead kept springing forth.

Sweat ran down his back as yet another group of dead archers dragged themselves out of the ground. Solas laid his mines in a semicircle under their feet. And cast immolate after immolate to whittle away at their numbers. Varric stood beside him, deadly crossbow firing bolts with impeccable precision. The Seeker took the forward position, yelling challenges at every foeman that approached. Her shield swung to and fro to catch and turn blades.

"Where the hell are those Orlesians?" growled the Inquisitor, limbs pumping to try to bring rest to the restless dead. Her pale face bespoke exhaustion. She became so easily exhausted now. One reason they camped so often.

This prolonged battle must be wearing on her.

"I think they're waiting down the hill to see if we die." Varric snorted a laugh as he spoke.

"Creators! My arms are like lead! Bugger this!" The Inquisitor threw herself up the steep palisade to stand at the very top. Solas almost bit his tongue in half as an arrow missed her by inches. _She's an easy target up there!_

Ignoring the hail of missiles that chased her, she shouted at the top of her lungs, "Come on, you Orlesian bastards! Fight! Je peux sentir ta _chatte_!"

Her voice rang as it carried for a mile, at least.

Cassandra's face turned a most interesting shade of crimson. She gasped, "Inquisitor!"

Varric guffawed, deep and loud. "I know that one!"

"Dare I ask for a translation?" Solas said, with arched brow.

The Seeker stammered, "She said she could smell their-their …."

"Cunts," finished Varric with a devilish smirk.

A warcry presaged a fresh clash of steel somewhere to the south of them. The undead turned to shamble toward the new fight.

The Inquisitor leaned out over the spiked wall, hand over eyes to shield them from the sun. A satisfied nod moved her head. "Finally!"

"Yes, yes. Very effective. Now would you please get down from there before an arrow finds your heart?" Solas said, with a wry twist of his mouth.

"Yes, hahren," she retorted, sour, as she hopped down to stand by him. He steadied her as she started to stumble, hand on her elbow. Pulling her arm free, she looked everywhere but at him, appalled by her clumsiness. And then she straightened, jaw firming. "Now, about these fucking barriers."

* * *

Later, surrounded by ranks of Orlesian regulars, the companions settled in for the night. Bountiful with tents, they each had their own that evening. Odd how he missed their warmth at his side in the dark. The gentle sounds of their breathing with his. He shook off that thought and resolved to enjoy the rare solitude granted him.

He closed his eyes and lay back, willing himself to fall deeper into reverie-

Damn. Sleep eluded him.

After about an hour of fruitless meditation, he stood and left the tent. The Inquisitor sat by a campfire nearby, her back to him. His footsteps faltered and stopped. A raven perched on her wrist, its head swiveling this way and that. He caught the low murmur of her voice-

"Good, good. The horses arrive tomorrow, now we've somewhere to stable them. Dennet would throw a shit-fit if he saw the state of them, but it is what it is," she said in easy conversation to the bird. Parchment crinkled in her other hand as she wadded it up and threw it into the fire. The raven hopped to her shoulder as she shifted to bring quill to fresh scrap of paper. A couple of rough scribblings later and she rolled up the note, tucking it into the bird's harness. "Now, take this to Xenon-"

" _Fenedhis!"_ cursed the raven, mantling like a raptor.

"I know, I know," she said with a light laugh. "You don't like him, but I need something only he has. Will you do this for me, ma vhenan?"

At the sound of that endearment, Solas's chest tightened.

He watched as she planted a fond kiss on the raven's beak and sent it off into the dusk sky.

Solas approached with measured strides, calling, "Leliana may get jealous. She seems the sort."

The Inquisitor turned her head toward him, shooting him a half smile. "If she thinks anyone can win a bird's heart, she's a fool. Now, flattery, that works. Even the plainest wren is a vainglorious peacock at heart."

"What of mourning doves then? They pairbond for life. Is that not love?"

"Ever notice how similar the males and females are? They love a mirror." She hummed in amusement, pleased with their game.

Echoing her amusement, Solas sat at the fire.

She looked over at him, studying him with her gleaming eyes. "Can't sleep?"

"The body is weary, the mind is restless," Solas replied, with a wry half-smile.

"My tent just feels so empty. Varric and Cass had the right idea. They bunked together." She chuckled at his raised brow. "Not like that. They are … comfortable in their conflict."

"Some more of your 'symmetrical opposition?'" he said, tone lilting.

She flashed her teeth at him, then her dimpled grin waned to a tiny lifting at the corners. "I think I spent most of my time out here wondering if they'd notice if I squeezed in there between them."

"And scandalize our dear Seeker again?" Solas shook his head. "For shame."

"Though I'd love to see her face in the morning! Oh, I bet it would be glorious. What if I spooned her?" She laughed then, doubling over her stomach to stifle the noise.

"Or she'd draw steel thinking you an intruder," he warned. "Is a prank worth getting run through?"

That killed her mirth. She ran a finger over her bottom lip. "Oooh, good point. Still, it's lonely in my tent. After so many years on my own, it's strange to want company. I don't need it. I'll probably never get used to it. So why do I want it?"

She spoke the very words in his own heart.

Solas sat stock-still as a strange vertigo overtook him. That ache in him built to a soft roar.

Then she said, with halting words, "Solas, do you, um, think I could-?" She finished with an awkward motion toward his tent.

Mouth suddenly dry as a desert, he swallowed and said, forcing a teasing tone into his voice, "You wish to share my tent?"

A pale, pink flush started across the bridge of her nose and spread to her cheeks. But bold as she ever had been, she said, "Don't get any ideas, hahren. I wish to merely occupy _half_ of your tent. One distinct half."

He let her dangle for a long moment, keeping his expression blank. Then he smiled and said, "Of course, Inquisitor. My humble abode is your humble abode."

"I have to slip off to go do something, but I'll be back soon." She stood and shook out her hair. Strapping on knives, she patted various pockets, checking her gear.

"Where do you go? Do you need assistance?" He made to get up, but stopped when her hand came up in halting gesture.

"No, no. It's just a-a thing the Dalish want me to do. I have to do it myself." Her eyes flicked away from his in an unreadable look. "Alone."

His mouth opened to protest, but shut as she turned a look of flat obstinance his way.

"Don't press, lethallin," she said. Then she motioned at the space between them. "This openness thing. It's new to me. I like it, but I will shut you out."

Annoyance flickered in him as he watched her walk away. He called, just loud enough for only her to hear, "I _do_ hope I remember to _not_ set wards on my tent tonight."

"I may deserve a good zapping when I return," she cajoled, spinning once to toss a weak grin his way.

With a snort, he started for his own tent, then paused and went to hers instead. Gathering her bedroll and belongings, he carried them under one arm, using his other to open the tent flaps. Arranging them into some sort of order on one side, he lay back on his own bedroll and stared at the ceiling. His gaze kept sliding to her side, though, no matter how much he disciplined himself.

True to her word, she slipped in a mere hour later. Solas feigned sleep as she shed her outerwear and slipped into her bedroll with a deep sigh. Icy digits touched his across the gap. He let her pull his hand out from under the covers and grasp it, returning a light squeeze.

Then he, too, sighed, drawing in a deep breath.

Solas drifted deeper into true sleep. All the while he couldn't help but notice how she smelled of blood.

And shame.

 _She called me 'lethallin.'_

* * *

 **A/N: Well, so that's a thing. Hopefully, I can keep up with the updates while I'm traveling for the holidays. Silly holidays. Crampin' m'style, and whatnot. If anyone's interested, I started a new solavellan story on tumblr called 'Here, Here I Quake.' It's a modern AU-type thingy. I'll probably bring it over at some point, but it's really just a side project. I'm still wholly behind this project, just taking a breather for a bit. (LOL. It helps that I have so much more written already, easily another 50k. Ugh, I'm firmly entrenched in Solavellan hell.)**

 **Anyway, stay tuned, my friends! May the holidays find you warm and happy and all that good shit. As always, concrit and reviews and comments are welcome.**


	21. Chapter 21

With Fort Revasan's siege lifted, the Inquisitor guided them home just as the leaves of the forests started to redden and fall. The gates of Skyhold welcomed them, opening wide. Cheers erupted from the people within, just as cheers had filled the air when they'd come through the encampment on the slopes behind.

In the corner of his eye, he saw the flush and ecstasy on Loranil's young face. Just past the Dalish youth, the Inquisitor rode, with her curious burden in front of her on the gelding. Big, green eyes stared all about and up, round as saucers. Pointed ears framed a naked scalp, pale hair shaved down to centimeters. She couldn't be more than six or seven summers old.

When they'd met Loranil at the base camp, he'd had the child with him. With no explanation why, he could only say the neighboring clan had sent her. Solas had expected a protest from the Inquisitor, but she just sighed and took the girl by hand. She'd spent the rest of their trip home fending off or flat out ignoring questions about the whole thing.

Cullen and the other advisors met them at the base of the great hall near the hospital tents. "Good to see you, Alas. How were the Exalted Plains?"

"Still there. Barely," she replied, with a scowl.

The darkening look on Loranil's face combined with how his mouth screwed into an impending protest made Solas grab and squeeze the lad's forearm. He hissed and whispered in modern Elvhen, " _The shemlen mean no disrespect."_

" _But-"_

Solas cut him off with a hand slicing through the air. " _You know how they love to shorten names."_ Not really a lie, just one where a particular case is concerned.

Realization dawned in the boy's eyes as his thoughts turned inwards, searching for an appropriate 'real' name. He ventured, " _Tir'alas_? _Tis what my father called my mother."_

The apostate stifled a laugh. " _If you will."_ He wondered how she'd react to _that_ and resolved to see it firsthand.

"What do you have there, Herald?" Josephine said, pointing her quill at the child in the Inquisitor's lap.

She slid down off the mount, then lifted the girl to set her on her bare feet. The too large fur cloak wrapped around the child puddled on the ground. "She is an orphan."

Cullen cleared his throat and said, "I'm not sure if a fortress is the most appropriate-"

The Inquisitor speared him with her grey eyes. "She has nowhere else to go."

Leliana stepped forward and took her little hand. "I'll just find this little dove some food, shall I?" Then she led the child off toward the kitchens. Solas noted the huge sigh of relief that shook the Inquisitor's narrow frame as the girl disappeared from view.

"But-" started Cullen.

"Where is safer than surrounded by the bulk of the Inquisition's forces?" asked Cassandra, dismounting from her own stud. Varric slid off his pony as well.

"We're not a nursery!" he snapped. Then he turned to the Inquisitor and said, "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You are not. Nevertheless, she is here. And I will not have her removed," stated their leader. Then her adamant frown shifted toward a softer expression. Her hand came out to touch the Commander's arm. "Trust me, Cullen. She is better off here."

Flustered, the burly human looked down at her hand, then back at her face. Then he nodded in acquiescence, his own voice tempering toward a tender whisper, "I do trust you."

Her hand jumped off the human as though burned, but she shrugged and passed it off as a simple dropping of her appendage.

Josephine stepped forward and tilted her head. Her quill came up to make note on her parchment. "What is her name? So I can add her to the archives."

The Inquisitor walked toward the steps leading up and into the great hall, tossing back over her shoulder, "She doesn't have one."

Taken aback, all the people present looked after her in confusion. All except Solas, whose thoughts turned to a dawning suspicion, not quite realized as yet.

"Well, kid. Now's your chance. That's Commander Cullen. He'll sort you out," said Varric to Loranil, pointing to the human. "Be sure to tell him about those red templar camps you saw."

Solas nodded that the boy should heed the dwarf's words when Loranil turned a questioning eye on him. With eager smile, the boy dismounted and ran after the retreating Commander and Seeker.

Josephine exchanged a bemused look with Solas and Varric. She said, "Ah. Youth."

Varric laughed, "You said it, sister. Well, I hear the sweet siren song of ale calling my name. Ruffles. Chuckles." He ambled toward the tavern.

Solas waved a farewell, then said, "I suppose I'll take the horses to the stables, then. Since no one else cared to do so."

"Thank you, Ser Solas." Josephine bowed to him before she, too, took to the steps.

The apostate turned the hart with a lean and a click of his tongue. His fingers flared out to spend a tiny amount of mana 'grabbing' all the dangling reins of the mounts around him. With barely a tug, they followed him.

Dennet smiled as he saw the small herd heading his way. His eyes danced over each, examining, evaluating. When Solas slipped off the hart's back, the human said, "Neat trick."

"Not much of one. They are eager for hay and oat. They would have followed regardless, I'm sure."

The dark-skinned man grinned even wider, showing the gaps abreast of his front teeth. "Always nice to meet someone who knows the hearts of the beasts he rides."

"Tis not a difficult puzzle to decipher. Their wants are not all that dissimilar to our own." Solas helped the Horsemaster unburden the horses of saddle and tack.

"True," agreed he. "I assume the relief mount waystations have been established?"

"Yes. All along the reclaimed trade route. We will need them the further we push west."

"Well, that's good then. The winter will close the passes soon. No armies march at the death of the year. I'll send some boys that way before they do," he said, grabbing a curry comb. He shook his head when Solas offered a hand. "No, Ser. If you don't mind, this has always been one of the more pleasant aspects of my duty. My time to bond with my charges and see if anything is amiss under hide or hoof. The Inquisitor deserves no less."

"I will leave you to it, then, Horsemaster Dennet. Farewell," Solas said, with a smile. He turned on his heel and headed for the sanctuary of the rotunda. Well, perhaps after a bath to wash off the road dust.

* * *

Soft voices from above caught his attention as he headed back from the baths. Night had just fallen, the moons waxed heavy and full over the battlements. Blotting water out of his ears, he paused as he passed under the arches, listening because he recognized the two who spoke-

"You don't like him, do you?" Cullen said, with a sigh. His shadow, projected on the ground before Solas, hunched and leaned on the wall that flanked the walkway from rotunda to tower.

"The hart?" asked the Inquisitor, her shadow turning toward the Commander. It shrugged. "I like him well enough. He's very useful."

"But you've never ridden him." Cullen then muttered, "Not by yourself anyway."

The Inquisitor seemed to hesitate. "No? I tried once, but he nearly bucked me off. I think he knew I'd never ridden his kind before."

"Really? But I thought perhaps he wasn't _too_ different from halla-" He stopped when she laughed. "What?"

"It's an … interesting assumption that all Dalish have ridden halla, is all," she said, tones warm to show she didn't take offense.

Cullen stammered, "I-I didn't mean-"

"I know, Cullen. Funny. For the longest time, I thought all shemle-humans, I mean, hated elves." She hummed as her shadow's elbow bumped his in friendly fashion. "It's distrust and misunderstanding mostly, class inequalities, petty evils, but rarely rabid hate. And that is on _both_ sides."

"Well, I can't say I've _never_ made generalities, but I'm always glad to be proven wrong," Cullen said, with a chuckle. He half-turned to her. Solas could almost feel the earnestness radiating off the man. "Have you really never ridden halla?"

She huffed a laugh. "And they say the _Dalish_ are obsessed with halla …. No. I have not. They are never many in any Dalish camp. They pull the aravels and are cared for as though blood-siblings," she explained. "They are … sacred, more or less. So only the honored and blessed get the privilege of riding one."

The Commander's shadow reached out to touch her face. "You look pretty blessed to _me_."

Solas's breath hitched in his throat as Cullen leaned toward her, his intent clear as day. His stomach clenched in dreaded anticipation of hearing wet lips colliding in passion, moans-

"Cullen," she whispered, her shadow's hand on the Commander's cuirass.

They must be but a breath apart, but the man did halt. His voice revealed valiant restraint, "What is it?"

She stayed silent, hand still resting on his chest.

Cullen leaned back a fraction, head tilting. "Is there … is there someone else?"

How something howling seemed to yawn wide open within Solas, yearning and hope-struck. He wanted nothing more than to flee before she answered, yet couldn't conceive of not hearing all the same.

"I'm not …. I don't-" She fell silent again. Solas wished he could see her expression, but he didn't dare move, not one millimeter.

"Won't you let me in, Alas? I cannot bear to see you so sad," the human whispered. "I could make you happy. I'd try anyway."

Now _her_ breath hitched, with something Solas couldn't decipher. But her hush did not break.

After an interminable _age_ , Cullen laughed, soft and wistful. "No, it's alright. Forgive me. I shouldn't have ..."

Her hand fell from his chest and the two shadows parted, both shifting in nervous tension. The Inquisitor said, soft as the breeze, "I am not blessed, nor sure how to accept what it is you are trying to give- No, let me finish. You have been a friend to me, even when I was less than gracious in accepting it. I …." She faltered again.

Then she snorted and grumbled, as though surprised herself, "I am not used to caring whether or not I hurt someone."

Cullen laughed again, a little brighter this time. He cajoled, "It's because I'm human, isn't it?"

"No!" she growled. Solas could picture the molten flash of her steely eyes. And suddenly the world seemed to breathe again.

The Commander laughed once more, easier now the tension had flown. "Well, now you've let me down _gently,_ I suppose there are worse things than remaining just a friend to you."

She let out a relieved sigh. As did Solas, letting the air hiss through his teeth, as silent as he could. He sagged against the stone of the arch, towel limp in his hand. Perhaps now would be the time to withdraw-

Cullen's shadow bumped hers, shoulder to shoulder. "Sooo, Leliana is quite taken with your … _ward_? The little thing follows her around everywhere. She calls the girl, 'Alouette.' A lark, I believe."

"It is a pretty name," she said, noncommittal.

"Does she truly have no name given her by her people? No one who can take her in?" Cullen asked. "I simply can't wrap my head around it."

She gave a bitter chuckle. "How nice it must be to live in your world. Where every child is cherished. Every babe wanted."

"Hey, now. I'm fully aware that reality is often dark and grim. Don't mistake optimism for naivete," he chided. "My hope is that one day we can at least leave this world a little better for whoever comes after."

After a moment, she said, "It is a good hope. Hold onto it."

"I must confess, until I saw that child riding with you, I never pictured you as a mother. And then I suddenly did. I have not been able to banish the idea." Cullen chuckled. "There I go. Making you uncomfortable again."

Her shadow turned toward the tower, the tap of her bare heels told Solas she moved that way. Cullen swung to walk beside her, his boots a harsher beat to her soft one. She muttered, "I am no one's mother. I would not even know where to begin a task like that."

Their voices receded, but Solas could just make out the Commander's tease, " _I_ do. But you said no."

"Cullen," she reprimanded, followed by a playful, "Show me that game again."

He laughed as they entered the tower.

Safe, undiscovered, Solas pulled himself upright, one hand on the cooling stone of the arch. With eyes clenched shut, he willed his heart to slow, to cease its mad piping. _Fool_.

 _Foolish foolhardy … fool._

* * *

A/N: Laaaate update. Sorry, guys. Holidays and shit, you know. At least it's only a day late, though. Anyway, Merry Xmas or similar to all the peoples of ffdotnet. I love you all. You're all amazing. Just thought you should know. So's anyway, Solas be creepin'. Not on purpose, but hey, you know, INCIDENTAL eavesdropping. It's a small fortress, after all. Everyone tripping all over each other and whatnot.

Crit and reviews are welcome as always.


	22. Chapter 22

As surprised as he'd been that she'd found him _here_ of all places, _nothing_ could have prepared him for the utter and complete shock arresting him now.

One second, he'd been looking out at the horizon, trying to ignore how his insides quaked in her presence, and now-

Her thumb brushed his jaw, translating her rapid pulse straight to his skin. A drumbeat in sync with his own thundering heart. Helpless before the wild wish in her gaze, he closed his eyes and tilted his head. Silk-soft lips met his, tentative, moving as though to shape his name there, against his mouth. A roar in his ears drowned out whatever thoughts might have occurred to him then.

A soft intake of breath presaged her breaking away. Her eyes blinked as they found his, the surprise there as deep as his own. She turned away, mortified at herself-

 _No._

 _Want_ blossomed in him.

All-consuming want. His hands found her hips and pulled her flush to his straining body, thigh thrust between her legs. Her heat _ignited_ him. Solas's mouth opened as he hunted for and captured those plump lips with his once again. Tongue sought tongue and danced. He drank deep of her fire, and how it _burned_ through his veins.

She tasted sweeter than anything he'd ever known. All those smothered impulses surged to the fore, tearing through what flimsy restraints he'd lashed them to. His thumbs drew lazy circles in the cradle of her hips. Her body yielded so readily to his, he just wanted to devour her. Or be devoured by her.

Just feeling. Just _being_.

And when she arched and lifted into him …. _Nothing_ more sublime existed.

" _I felt the whole world change."_ His words echoed in his ears, said just moments ago.

And once again, it did.

She pulled away again first, gasping in air that wasn't air. With a shake of his head for the unnecessary, _wasteful_ separation, he pulled her back for another sip of rapture.

Reason asserted itself with its usual cutting, cruel edge. It took all he had to pull away from her then, knowing as he did now in a bone-deep way that he'd always want more. Be starved for more. Bittersweet; the bright hope that had stolen into his dark places. He made himself say, "We-we shouldn't. It … isn't right. Not even here."

Confusion made fae her lambent silvery stare. "What do you mean 'even here?'"

"Where did you think we were?"

She looked around, realization dawning. "This isn't real."

A spark of mischief lit in his heart and he said, drawing her gaze into his, "That is a matter of debate. Probably best discussed when you … _wake up."_

He took an inordinate amount of pleasure in the surprise in her flushed expression, the perfect 'o' she made of her bee-stung lips, just before she popped out of the Fade.

Haven started to dissolve around him, without her subconscious will to keep it solid.

His knees felt weak, so he leaned on a crumbling, illusory wall to think. Though it hardly seemed possible past the memory of what just happened. Running a hand over his face, he said, "Mythal …. What am I to do now?"

She didn't answer. She rarely did.

Heaving a sigh that did nothing to calm him, Solas concentrated and woke on the couch of his rotunda. He stood and did his best to cool his burning cheeks before the inevitable-

The door leading to the great hall swung inward with the tiniest creak. He waited, feigning interest in his frescoes. But his eyes betrayed him and slid over to that entryway.

She stared back, half hidden behind the stone arch, showing him only one blazing cheek and sparkling eye. Her lips, swollen and ruddy, parted in a soft pant.

So enticing. His will started to fragment yet again. With mouth curling into impish smile, Solas said, "Sleep well?"

The Inquisitor seemed to become aware of her strange timidity then and cleared her throat, approaching him. "When I asked to speak with you, I didn't expect to be doing it in the Fade. Or for that matter, to be … _doing it_ in the Fade."

He laughed. "I apologize. The kiss was rushed and ill-considered. I should not have encouraged it."

Her brow lifted, and with arch tone, she commented, "You say that, but you're the one who started with tongue."

He still tasted her. How powerful that imagining must have been. Staring at her lips now, he wondered if she would be that sweet if he kissed her now. Or perhaps … _sweeter_. "I did no such thing."

"Oh? Does it not count if it's only Fade-tongue?"

Solas swallowed and blurted, "It's been a long time. And things have always been … easier for me in the Fade. I am not certain this is the best idea. It could lead to trouble."

Her eyes searched his face hard. Then they emptied of emotion. The playfulness that had been there vanished like smoke. "I would not push you where you would not otherwise go."

And she turned to leave.

His heart leapt into his throat at the implied closing of this most unexpected door. Clanging shut, casting him into darkness again. He caught her hand in his, smiling when she looked back at him. "Will you give me time to think about it? There are … considerations."

Brows crinkling, she said, "Take all the time you need." Then she left, bare feet barely making a sound on the stone.

Solas sat in his chair with a huge exhale. Only when he paused to think did he notice that their conversation was eerily reminiscent of the one he'd witnessed between she and Cullen just before he'd sought the Fade.

Did she take it as rejection cloaked in kindness? That he was 'letting her down gently?'"

That bothered him to an alarming degree, though he knew it would be for the best.

A voice from above broke his absorption, "'Fade-tongue, is it? Cullen will be crushed."

Solas started and glared up at the Tevinter, who looked back down with a snide half-smile. The elf crossed his arms over his chest. "Most wouldn't intrude on personal conversations."

"Most wouldn't have personal conversations in public," Dorian shot back. "This is a library, after all. Quiet is kind of the thing. When there isn't quiet, it tends to draw attention."

"Everyone has turned in for the night. Is it really public if there is no public? A library if nobody is using it?"

" _I'm_ here." Dorian frowned

"As I said, _nobody_." He couldn't resist the barb, giving it a puckish flippancy and a smirk. Nothing like poking the man's vanity.

" _You're_ here, too," Dorian pointed out, mustache lifting on one side.

Damn. The man had a wit. The dream must have rattled Solas more than he thought. To leave such an opening-

"But since you _are_ here, would you help me with something?" Dorian said. "I'm having trouble deciphering these old runes."

Solas chuckled. "You require the assistance of an elf?" He dropped into an insolent bow. " _How_ may I serve?"

Something like offense crossed Dorian's face. "I require the assistance of a learned colleague. It's why I _asked_. Really, Solas, that chip on your shoulder must get so heavy."

"We all have our burdens, exiled scion of House Pavus." At the man's shocked dismay, Solas softened his scorn. "You are not the only one who listens. This is a library, as you've pointed out. And your voice tends to carry."

The human blinked, then said, "Fair enough. _Will_ you help me though?"

The apostate turned toward the stairs that led to the upper levels. When he approached Dorian, the mage nodded in respect and said, "And for the record, it's a self-imposed exile."

"Self-imposed or not, the word itself speaks of a deep desire to return. A wish to go home." Aware of the sad note that had crept into his voice, Solas could only watch the thoughts and conclusions being drawn in Dorian's eyes.

"You're a bit of an exile yourself, aren't you?" Dorian held up his hands before Solas's warning look. The human said, "Don't fret. I won't pry. Now, if you'll look here, I think I've managed to translate these bits correctly, but then that makes the rest of it nonsensical."

Glad to have something to distract him, Solas bent over the documents. "It is only nonsensical if one does not take into account degrees of emphasis, or affirmation. I have seen similar in Tevinter ruins and had some of their meaning imparted to me in dreams. The history-"

They worked well into morning, until exhaustion claimed Dorian at last. The Tevinter thanked him as the human walked away to his own quarters in the north wing.

Wearied but not tired enough to sleep, Solas sat back in his chair downstairs, slumping into its cushions. Unbidden, his hand came up to draw a line over his lips. First the bottom, then the top. Behind his eyelids flashed the memory of how she'd felt. Her wet, welcoming mouth. Her body pressed to him.

Heat lanced through his core, rising to close his throat, flush his face.

He wondered where in Skyhold she might be now, what duties required her direct intervention. Did the dream haunt her, too?

Did she still taste him on her lips?

Did she _burn_ for him?

With a hitching breath, he sat upright to stifle his arousal where it lay like a hot iron brand against his thigh. Solas ignored it. _It_ , eventually, went away. He picked up his own current work and did his best to banish her from his presence.

Even succeeded somewhat.

* * *

 **A/N: Well, the chapter is short, but I hope you find it sweet as well as fulfilling. I am traveling at the moment, so delays abound. But I also didn't think padding this chapter would do it justice. It already has so much canon dialogue in it, I didn't want to linger on that. However, it was horribly satisfying to play around in Solas's head during that moment. Mmm, mm, mm, that elf. He tries so hard to be aloof and fails spectacularly. LOL. Anyway, Merry Xmas and so forth. Year's almost over. I can't believe how quickly it flew by.**

 **Have a happy New Year, comrades and fellow dreamers!**

 **P.S. As always, concrit and such are very welcome.**


	23. Chapter 23

Expression held milk-mild, Solas showed his hand. Blackwall groaned amid a laugh and a cheer from Varric. They four huddled around the impromptu card game in the stables. A board, a cloth and a barrel provided setting. The dwarf across from him provided the means, by way of the deck of cards he always had on his person.

"I knew you were bluffing! Didn't I say he was bluffing?" Blackwall looked around for validation and vindication.

"If you knew he was bluffing, you should have raised," said Varric, gathering all the discarded cards into his hands. "Not folded."

"You folded, too!" said the Warden.

"Yeah, well, I saw which way the crap was flying. So I dodged." Varric shrugged. "Besides, when _everyone_ is bluffing, it makes for an … awkward game. Touchy, like when cats fight. All feints and no bites."

Pulling his winnings toward him, Solas allowed a chuckle to escape him. "I may be persuaded to sell you back the knife, Ser Warden, for …."

Flashing fingers from Varric under the table caught his eye. The dwarf ticked out a number on those digits. Higher than he would have said, but Solas smiled a mischievous smile and finished, " … Twenty sovereigns."

Blackwall groaned again and pointed at him. "You're a pirate, you know that?"

The blizzard outside rattled the shutters and doors.

"It's really coming down out there," Varric said, as the whole stable creaked and shook. The mounts in their stalls shifted and whickered softly to one another.

Their fourth spoke, voice distant, "Afraid, but inside is safe. Faith and trust in the hand that put them here."

"Yeah, Kid. Dennet is a good man," said Varric.

"No, not the horses. They're not afraid. They're warm and happy." Cole's eyes appeared from between the lank strands of hair under the wide brim of his hat. Solas watched the human and dwarf shiver under their heavy fur blankets. So they _did_ still find the spirit disconcerting.

Blackwall cleared his throat and said, "I'll be glad when the first thaw hits. Then we can shuffle people around a bit. I never thought Skyhold could feel this full."

"Until the settlement down the slope is finished, I can't see any other way," said Solas. "The winter is too cruel to have everyone remain in tents."

Varric said, "I'm doubling up with this couple. Let me tell you, I'm thinking of moving my stuff out here to the stables. Not fond of the smell, but the company is less … ardent? Amorous?"

"Horny?" laughed Blackwall. "Be my guest. The whole upstairs is pretty empty. Just me and Dennet. I'll warn you though. We both snore. Loudly."

"That would make you a fine trio then," Solas teased. "Varric's nighttime concertos have filled many a campsite with rumbling song."

"Didn't know I had such an avid audience. Next time I'll know to charge." Varric grinned as he dealt a hand.

Blackwall organized his cards, commenting, "Speaking of horny, anyone know what's been bothering Bull lately?"

Even Solas had seen the Qunari stalking to and fro through the fortress, an uncharacteristic frown stamped on his scarred, rocky face.

"They're reaching out. He never thought they'd be so close," Cole said, gaze following the curl of smoke from their candles.

"Anyone who _isn't_ prone to random, cryptic statements?" said Blackwall, with a sour tone.

"All I know is it's something to do with Par Vollen. He got a raven last week. Flew right into the tavern." Varric hummed as he considered his hand. "Kid, you want any?" He gestured to the deck.

"No." Cole shook his head, eyes fixed in the middle distance.

Solas said, "I will take two." Then he discarded and took the proffered draw. Interesting, if not a marked improvement. But he showed none of it on his face.

"Three for me," Blackwall muttered, eyebrows ticking down in the way they did when the man thought he'd had a decent chance but luck abandoned him. Varric and Solas exchanged a meaningful look.

"And three for the dealer."

Cole put out a single coin from his middling pile. Solas raised four. Blackwall met it, then groaned when Varric raised it yet again. Around and around it went, stakes climbing to obscene heights.

Engaged now, Solas leaned forward a bit, eyeing the sneaky dwarf across from him.

Blackwall grumbled and muttered, "Fold."

"Now, Hero? You wanna fold now?" Varric chided. "You hung in this long. What's a few more coins?"

"I only _have_ a few more coins." The Warden swept a hand over his meager holdings. A mere ten sovereigns and a few coppers.

Varric clicked his tongue, hand snaking out to meet the current bet. He turned to his left. "Well, Kid?"

With dreamy slowness, the spirit pushed the rest of his few coins into the center. "All ... in?"

A suspicion grew in Solas's mind, but he couldn't help but keep the hand going out of curiosity. He met the bet and turned to Varric.

With quirked brow, the dwarf said, drawing the word out, "Call."

They showed their hands. When Cole dropped his, Blackwall uttered a choked oath. "Four of a kind!?"

Solas smiled and shook his head.

"And you drew that natural?" continued Blackwall. His hand came up to rub his forehead. "I can't believe it. It's impossible."

"Not quite. Im _probable_ , but still well within the realm of the possible." Solas hummed as his gaze flicked over to Varric for just a second. Did the dwarf seem a little too … _pleased_ with himself?

Cole's goggling orbs swept over them, vague and uncertain. "I … won?"

Varric pushed the large pile of coin toward the spirit. "You won, Kid. _And_ it's your deal."

A rare, shy smile appeared on the spirit's face. He picked up the knife that had once again made it into the pot and pushed it over to Blackwall. "Mother made it. It kept its edge even when everything else fell apart."

The Warden's eyes grew wide and a little moist round the edges as the spirit picked up the cards and shuffled. Blackwall took the knife from the table and buckled it back on his belt. "I'd … forgotten. Thank you, Cole."

The spirit froze in the middle of the deal, then said to Solas, incredulous, "He _thanked_ me."

"I heard," said Solas, warmth bubbling in his chest. That they'd include the spirit …. Then after picking up his cards, he said to Varric, "This is an intriguing game, Ser Tethras. What do you call it again?"

"I haven't named it yet. Still kicking around a couple ideas. Big stick? Pocket tres? I dunno. Tuppenny upright? No … I'm pretty sure that's a sex act." He sighed. "It's a work in progress."

"Maybe we should go back to Diamondback. I at least understand Diamondback," muttered Blackwall. Then he glanced up at Solas and Varric, who looked at him with brows raised over thin, humor-filled smiles, as though keeping back laughter. The Warden said, "Oh, who am I kidding? I'll never break this losing streak. Not with you two … er, _three …_ playing."

Sometime later, after the next few hands, Blackwall said, "Anyone else ponder the wisdom of playing cards with a mind-reading spirit?"

"Nope. Never crossed _my_ mind," Varric said.

Solas chuckled. "'Twould only be unwise if one played without making that realization."

Cole said, "I don't cheat. I see, but I don't let my hands know."

"I wasn't accusing, Cole. I was just making conversation." The Warden set his cards down and huffed on his hands, rubbing them together for warmth. "Well, I'm going to take my last two sovereigns along with what's left of my dignity and head to bed. Good night, everyone."

"I'll be back later to cuddle, Hero," Varric called after him.

Blackwall snorted as he mounted the steps to the hayloft. "I'll keep it warm for you."

Varric laughed. The remaining three stood, heading toward the stable door. Solas waited as the dwarf wrapped his cloak tighter, the bear skin blanket on top of it. Varric stopped and considered the taller elf. Then he said, with a sideways nod toward Cole, "Him, I understand. But you …. Really, Chuckles? A scarf?"

Solas glanced down at his one concession to the cold and shrugged. "The cold will not bother me."

"Crazy barefoot elves," grumbled Varric as he slid the door open just wide enough to let them through. The snow entered in frosty waves, The dwarf shuddered and said, "Brrr."

They ventured out. Cole shut the door behind them. As they walked toward the tavern, Solas breathed in the icy wind and breathed out _heat._ A magical heat that soon expanded out and out until the trio walked within a bubble of relative warmth. So balmy that Varric harrumphed and pulled his hood back.

He said, "Well. That's useful."

"I don't normally extend the spell past my skin, but as a courtesy …," the elf said, with one flick of his hand. Indeed he didn't. As a sustained spell, it ate more mana per second the 'bigger' it was.

"I appreciate it. And it explains a lot," Varric said. "How you never seem uncomfortable, even in the shittiest weather."

"There are advantages to being a mage." Solas smiled. "Just as there are advantages to being a rogue. Like, say … stacking a deck of cards."

"Saw that, did you? I didn't do it to win, so it's not really cheating." Varric glanced over at him, then rolled his eyes. "Okay, it was cheating. But hey, in card games, cheating is very nearly mandatory."

"Did you also feed Cole his betting strategy?"

"Mmmmaybe." The dwarf's mouth twisted in guilt. "Look, I can make good if-"

"I do not care about the coin I lost, particularly if, in the act of losing them, I am entertained as well as that," said Solas. "I found it very humorous."

"Always happy to oblige." Varric tipped an imaginary hat to him.

"Laughing, laughter. Always. Then the red. The red so red it was white. Now, he wonders if he'll ever really laugh again." Cole drifted past them and entered the tavern. Light and mirth assaulted them from the open door.

Varric's mouth shut with a snap. He followed the spirit into the crowded tavern, muttering as an aside, "He just puts it all out there, doesn't he?"

Solas hesitated at the door. "Cole cannot help it. It is part of his nature."

"A little tact would be nice, is all I'm asking." The dwarf started toward the bar then stopped when he noticed Solas didn't follow. "What? Waiting for an invitation?"

"I should go. I have books to translate."

"C'mon, the books will still be there tomorrow. Have a drink with me. Can't hurt," Varric said. Then his brows wrinkled. "Can it?"

A surly fellow the same height as Varric popped up by the door. "You're letting all the heat out. Either come inside or go away." Then he scuttled back to the bar.

Varric threw a conciliatory grin the bearded dwarf's way. He beckoned to Solas. "You heard him. Get in here."

With a sigh, Solas stepped into the tavern. Varric slapped him on the shoulder and led the way to the bar. The dwarf rogue hopped onto an unoccupied stool and patted the one next to him. Solas slid onto it and folded his hands on the counter.

"What do you want to drink? Oh, you know what, let me order for us," Varric said, then he leaned over the counter to whisper in the dwarven bartender's ear. The bearded one hid a smile behind his hand as he ventured into the back room.

"What are you up to, durgen'len?" asked Solas, with quirked brow.

"Never you mind all that. Call it … a little restitution for delivering most of your coin into Cole's pocket."

The bartender came back then with a bottle covered in dust. He blew and a cloud of particles filled the immediate area. Solas coughed and waved it away. Two short glasses appeared before Solas and Varric. The scent of peaches accompanied the sharp pop of cork exiting bottle. Amber liquid sloshed into those glasses.

"Leave the bottle," said Varric to the bartender. Then he picked up his glass, holding it aloft.

Solas did the same. "What shall we drink to?"

"How 'bout to getting the stick out your arse!" yelled Sera, plopping into the seat next to Solas. She laughed her crazed laugh, pounding the counter. By her red features, Solas could see she'd already had much to drink.

Varric and Solas exchanged a look and a shrug. The dwarf said, "May stick and ass never meet again."

"Here, here," said Solas, throwing back the potent liquor. Oh, how it burned. It burned so sweet. It tasted like sunlight and peaches and late, languid summer. From throat to stomach, it flowed like ambrosia. It brought an immediate flush, and a smile, to his face.

"Another glass for our blond friend," said Varric.

Sera reached over and snatched the bottle. "Bugger that! I'll neck it."

"Wait!-" Varric sighed as the elf took a long draught. "Damn. Where am I going to find another bottle of Carnal, 8:69 Blessed? Oh, silly me, I have three more."

The elven rogue pulled off with a loud and incredulous, "Cor! Is that a-" The back of her hand swiped over her mouth as she swooned on her feet. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she started to fall-

"Whoa-oh, I got her. Always taking that one too many," said the Iron Bull, sweeping her up before she could hit the floor. The half-empty bottle he snatched midair as it dropped. The Qunari handed it to Varric as he strode up the stairs, presumably taking Sera to her room.

Solas laughed behind his hand as Varric poured them two more. The apostate said, "I spent hours on the road trying to shut her up and you manage it with a single drink."

"It's a gift. What can I say?" Varric swallowed his shot and sighed, eyes closed in appreciation.

Savoring it, Solas sipped the honeyed beverage. letting it warm his skin all the way out to his eartips. Refills came and went. The elf listened with polite interest as Varric chatted away with him, with other patrons. The Iron Bull, with two maids on his arm, started to dance a lively jig to the tune Maryden played on her lute. The stomping of drunken feet made for raucous, though ill-timed percussion.

After a moment, Solas realized Sera figured heavily in the song's bawdy lyrics. His grin grew wider even as his eyes started to slide closed. Colors danced over the inside of his eyelids. The texture of the wooden bar under his fingers drew his fascination. As did the many different voices around him. Everything seemed looser, less static. He could almost taste the Fade here, with so many dreams pressing close-

"Oh, that's _filthy_ , Varric!" said a sudden voice on his left. One that tingled in his bones. Solas peeled stubborn eyelids up out of the way to see the Inquisitor standing next to him. She herself peered down the neck of the empty bottle of Carnal.

"It's just anatomy, Sticks," Varric demurred.

"How do they get it in there, I wonder?" she said as she upended the bottle and whacked the bottom with the flat of one hand. "I mean, I don't stand on ceremony, but to have it just so there and … _open_ …."

"Tir'alas!" called Solas, reaching out to pull her close by her slender waist. When she balked, he let her go with a laugh. He said to Varric, "Fitting, don't you think? Tir'alas. It means 'the world.'"

"You're drunk, Solas," she chided, with a sharp look.

"Mmm, possibly. Ser Tethras's fine private reserves are to blame." Solas rested his chin in one palm as he gave her a devilish smirk.

"These 'reserves' _made_ you drink them, did they?" she retorted, with a smirk of her own. She turned to look at the dwarf on her other side. He froze, caught in the act of jotting something down in a tiny notebook. She accused, "And what are you doing?"

"Nothing," said he, with a shifty sideways look.

"You better not be making up stories about me again. I had a hell of a time convincing Cass that I'd never been an … an 'erotic' dancer."

The dwarf burst out in guffaws. "It's ' _exotic'_ dancer. And _I_ thought the story had merit, even if it wasn't strictly factual. It's an allegory."

In the meantime, Solas had snagged the bottle and closed an eye to behold for himself what lay at the bottom. A peach pit carving of some sort. It wouldn't resolve into anything of meaning. Then he turned the bottle. Ah.

A surprised laugh seized him. "Really?" He looked up at the Inquisitor and Varric, who looked back with raised brows. "For all their talk of subtleties, Orlesians are anything but."

Varric chuckled. "Well, for some things, subtle isn't really the point."

"I suppose not." He licked his lips and let his voice roll out of him, dark and very nearly lewd. "Floral, piquant wormwood. The molten heat of distilled spirits. And the slick honey of summer peaches." His eye slid over to the Inquisitor, who stared back with a blush creeping over her cheeks. "It's close, but could it ever do the act itself justice?"

He had the very visceral pleasure of seeing her swallow, hard. She swung on Varric. "You gave him _wormwood_? No wonder he's acting so strangely. You'll be lucky if it doesn't kill you both."

"What? I didn't brew it myself. Besides, everyone enjoys a little kick in the pants by the green fairy now and then." Varric waved off her angry retort. "It's just a bit of fun. We're having fun. Isn't this fun, Chuckles?"

"Oh, yes. _Fun_ ," said he, watching the raging blush on Tir'alas's face deepen even further. Then he hiccuped, startling himself. With a frown, he said, "Though she may have a point. I should go. Sleep will restore me."

When he didn't move, the others frowned, too. Varric said, "Weren't you leaving?"

"Yes."

After a long moment, the Inquisitor said, "You can't stand, can you?" More statement than query.

"An uncertainty that is surely giving me pause." To Solas's absolute chagrin, they laughed.

With a harried sigh, Tir'alas grabbed his arm and lifted it onto her shoulder. Her other arm went round his waist. With her added support, he stood on shaky legs. She turned to the dwarf and said, "I'll take him back to the rotunda."

"Don't get lost out there," called Varric after them.

Tir'alas muttered, "Fool."

"I am. Sometimes. Yes," replied he. The scent of her hair beguiled him, as did the fluted point of her ear.

"Not you. That dwarf. I think he's made it his personal crusade to get everyone roaring drunk at least once. I'm surprised he got you, though. I didn't think you the type."

"I enjoy a libation as much as the next man. That is all I am," he said, leaning close to run his teeth up the outside edge of that lovely ear. He whispered, "A man."

She shuddered against his flank. "Stop it. You're drunk and will probably want to hang yourself in the morning for either hangover or humiliation."

"Maybe."

"Where are your shoes?" she asked as they got to the door. "Don't tell me you've gone with just wraps in all this snow."

He looked down and saw the practical boots on her feet. They looked wrong there and he shot a questioning look at her.

She said, "Even I must do as prudence dictates. It's a damn blizzard out there."

"You don't need them. You only think you do," he said, as he swung open the door. Solas stepped out into the bitter wind of winter and called on his magic. A bit more than necessary slipped free this time. A glowing blue shield erupted around them, the air inside it soon becoming warm as any spring day. The snow still falling melted as it passed through the shield and peppered them with rain.

"Great. Now instead of getting cold, we'll get wet. That's _soo_ much better." Despite her sour words, he saw the wonder in her eyes as she looked about. "You'll have to show me how to do that sometime."

"As you wish, Tir'alas."

The way she ducked her head as they trudged on toward the great hall made him smile. She said, "Was it you who told Loranil and Alouette to call me that?"

"No, actually Loranil first said it. I thought it charming. I thought it fit who you are," he replied, trying to keep to a straight-ish line.

"And who am I then? Do _you_ even know?"

The hearth-driven heat of the great hall greeted them as they entered, shutting the large doors behind them. He spoke again as they veered right, "I know enough. You protect, you shelter. A safe harbor in a storm. A hearth in a blizzard. You know firsthand the cruelty of fate, so you would stand at the threshold to beat it back if you could. Break fate."

She deposited him on his couch. Solas settled back with a sigh. A weight fell over him. His fingers told him it was a blanket. She tucked it around him with efficient, perfunctory movements. From between slitted eyelids, he watched her plop down to sit on the floor next to the couch.

Looking away, she said, soft, "You know nothing. I've done worse things than you can imagine."

"Somehow I doubt that it's beyond imagining. Are you so alone in sinning? In the counting of bad deeds? I think not."

She paused, then said, "You speak of hearth and harbor because you long for home. Am I to be that for all of them? A symbol?"

His fingers found her hair and ran through the silken strands, marveling all over again at the ebon sheen of it lying against her alabaster skin. "You are already a symbol of hope to most of them. As you are already home to me, ma Tir'alas."

She trembled at his words and took his hand from her locks. Tucking it back under the covers, she said to him, "Say this again to me when you're sober and perhaps I'll believe it. For now, drunken fool, sleep. Go to the Fade you love so much."

Solas frowned and would have said more, but his mind shut his mouth and dumped him into the land of dreams with little warning. There he floated amid formless potential until morning.

* * *

 **A/N: Well, here's a long-ish chapter to make up for the last one being so darn short. lol. Our poor Solas, mm? He's in too deep. Serves him right for breaking all our damn hearts. All us Vhenans weeping collectively in Solavellan hell. But, you know, I don't think we're necessarily unhappy there. I do love angst. And there's room for hope in the next installment of the franchise (ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseahappyending) as unlikely as it is. But whatever happens, Bioware, I'm ready to be hurt again. You do it so well and in a way that makes me want to replay that hurt over and over again, (and write schmoopy whatifs and fluff and even more angst and everything and stuff) I love you, Bioware. Don't ever doubt that.**


	24. Chapter 24

His hand searched for her before his eyes did and met only air. The space before his couch empty and unoccupied.

Strange the tight disappointment that squeezed his lungs. Then he shook it off. What? Did he expect her to wait on him? To sit and stare and pine over him while he slept?

Nothing could be more _un_ like her.

Then memory intruded, foggy and vague. And then the shame. Had he really called her home? His world? Said such things to her in the disorder of drunkenness?

Solas groaned as he sat up, cradling his aching skull.

He did.

Fool, she named him. He never felt more foolish.

Yanking his stiff body to its feet, Solas stumbled over and sat in his chair, eyes still clenched shut to the bright light of day. As he sat and pinched the bridge of his nose, a scent wafted into his nostrils. Something … delicious.

Startled, he looked. Upon his desk, set with care among his many papers, a plate. On this plate, a slice of toasted bread. Sugar frosted the top crust. Some sort of fruit compote coated the side. In front, a note with a single word-

* * *

 **E AT**

* * *

Past the plate, a saucer and teacup sat. The liquid still steamed. It, too, had a note-

* * *

 **Hair of the D og**

* * *

Curious, he drank, and then smiled as diluted notes of peaches and wormwood burst on his tongue, along with the burn of alcohol. It nearly masked the detestable flavor of tea. Smiling, he quaffed it down, then bit into the toast, relishing the heady sweetness of blackberry and currants.

More than liquor warmed his heart.

His mind's eye saw her prepare these things for him, write the notes and leave them not that long ago, if the tea remained as warm as it had.

"Heard you had quite the night, Solas," said Dorian as he came through the door from the great hall. "Might that smile have something to do with it?" He pointed at the elf's face.

Schooling his features to mildness, Solas said, "I'm afraid I might have indulged a little too much in spirits. The liquid kind."

"Oooh, 'indulging' is nice. Never be afraid to do it once in awhile." Dorian reached over and picked up one of the notes. He frowned. "Written by our dear Inquisitor. I can tell by the messiness of her 'aitch'es and ay's."

"It's a huge improvement on what was," Solas said, feeling a tad defensive on her behalf. Then he nodded to the Tevinter. "A credit to her teacher."

With pleased smirk, the mage said, "Still, she could use some work. You'll see. I'll have her writing calligraphy that will shame those shabby monks' illuminated works in the Chantry."

"Just when I was wondering which of us would blaspheme first today." Solas chuckled. "I'm not sure she would have the patience to learn illumination."

"You're probably right. Can't hurt to try, though. It's still a few weeks before thaw. Surely, we can do better than _that_ by then." Dorian flipped the card back onto the desk. Then his eye took in the half-eaten pastry and swung back to Solas. He pouted. "She never brings _me_ sweets."

The apostate picked up his toast and took another bite, savoring the crunch of it between teeth before the mage's envious gaze. He said, offhanded, "Surely a simple, albeit tragic, oversight."

"Or she just likes you better." Dorian leaned on his desk. A devious grin alighted on his face. "Or your Fade-tongue, anyway."

Solas rolled his eyes. "Must you be distasteful? I am eating."

"I bet she'd like you to eat h-" A sudden mouthful of bread silenced the mage.

Licking crumbs off his fingers, Solas picked up a book. He ignored the wounded look on Dorian's face as the man removed the pastry that Solas so summarily stuffed in the Tevinter's mouth.

Then the man shrugged and took a large bite out of the toast. "This is really quite good."

"Yes. Go enjoy my breakfast somewhere else, please." Diving nose-first into the book, Solas sighed as Dorian's footsteps receded toward the stairs. His tongue rolled around his mouth, dipping for fragments of that pastry. _Mmm_ , he could do with twenty more.

How did she find out about his love of sweets?

With a hum, Solas put the book back down after reading the same line over and over without comprehension.

Perhaps she only guessed. That seemed logical. Many liked sugary treats.

Still, the thought tantalized him that she had watched at some point to see what he favored. How long ago had she started?

Aware of his encroaching silliness, Solas thrust the thought away. Such fantasies did more harm than good. He still had yet to find a graceful way out of last night's mess. What could he say to her now? After all his talk of needing space and time to think, then babbling such endearments in the flush of liquor.

Waiting for _her_ to broach the subject seemed safest by far.

A loud crash and an angry shout resounded through the building. Solas stood and looked up just as the Inquisitor burst through the upstairs door, her voice tight with fury-

"No! I said I'm done for today. No more needlepoint, no more poise and posture lessons, no more getting jabbed with pins!" Only then did he take in her dress. And dress it was. A half-finished gown flowed in big, billowy folds high on her waist. A strapless bodice crushed her bosom to a boyish flatness. The rounded tops of her breasts heaved with every enraged breath.

Madame Vivienne's voice came through the portal, cool and aloof. Solas couldn't make out the words.

In response, Tir'alas bristled even more, her long hair seeming to stand on end-

 _Long hair?_

Confused, Solas watched as she tore at her garment and it fell out of sight to puddle around her feet. The apostate, taken aback, tore his eyes away to try to not stare. Heat rose in his cheeks as he heard her curse and kick the dress back through the door. She yelled, "Yeah? I'd rather act the child, than _be_ the crone!"

Then, with a strange heavy clacking sound, she stomped down the stairs. When she reached the bottom, she growled, "Oh, blast these things!"

He couldn't resist a peek then, and turned. She hopped on one foot as she struggled to remove dainty little shoes from her feet. The high-heeled kind Vivienne favored. Off came one, then the other. She threw them into the wall with a satisfied grunt. Only then did she see him and freeze.

Solas's eyes drifted down of their own accord. The relief that she wasn't nude didn't last as he took in her frilly orlesian underthings. Gold corset over cream drawers with white stockings below. The little ribbon bows on the sides magnetized his attention.

Though she wore more actual fabric than she usually did, she somehow seemed _less_ dressed.

 _How alarming,_ said a faint and stricken voice inside him.

A light "ahem" broke his trance. His gaze flicked up, a sharp and guilty tick. The Herald's head sat tall on her neck, regal as any queen. The severe look on her face as she glared at him did nothing to ease the tight shame that gripped him. She reached up and pulled off the ( _wig?),_ tossing it to the floor as well.

She said, "And no magic lessons today, either. And no reading, _Dorian_!"

Above, a lazy hand over the railing waved to show that the Tevinter heard.

With an imperious sweep and a snap of her fingers, she walked out of the rotunda and into the main hall, slamming the door behind her with a ringing bang, but not before the scandalized gasps of a hall full of courtiers leaked in.

A sigh from above drew Solas's attention. Vivienne and Dorian leaned over the balustrade up there. Along with several other shocked onlookers. With a sour look, the circle mage said, "Solas, do be a dear and pick those things up for me. Hopefully, she has not damaged them beyond repair."

Frowning, Solas did as she asked, grabbing shoes and wig. He ventured upstairs and handed them to the dark-skinned mage. Dorian shook his head and went back to his books.

She set the heels down on a nearby table as she tried to right the tangled wig. Combing her fingers through the mass, she said, "I despair of ever teaching her civility."

Solas watched for a moment, then said, "Do you ever stop to think that she may not fit the mold you make for her?"

"Of course she doesn't, darling, but every great sculpture started out as a rough block of stone."

"One could argue that in sculpting that stone, many pieces are lost, struck off to lie on the ground, discarded," Solas said.

The wig soon took on a less wild aspect under Vivienne's grooming. A smooth curtain of black that nearly touched the ground, cascading from her hand where she held the wig at shoulder-height. A pensive look puckered the circle mage's lips. "None of us remain whole in the pursuit of ambition."

"That's as may be, Madame." Solas paused, then continued, "But whose ambition is she currently pursuing? Hers? Or yours?"

That seemed to give Vivienne pause. "You're saying I've been ambitious _for_ her, rather than finding out where her own ambitions lie? Or even taking an interest in her wants? Whatever those may be."

" _Is_ that what I'm saying?" he replied, dry as autumn leaves.

She hummed. Then said, "I shall think on it. Some things she _must_ learn, in order to move among the mighty, but perhaps I shouldn't expect to carve a marble bench out of an oak tree."

Solas smiled at the imagery. "Oak is a fine material. Many beautiful things may be created from it, but no, a marble bench is not likely."

"This was once mine, you know," she said, looking with fond regard at the wig. She glanced over to him and saw the question in his eyes. Smiling, she said, "No. I didn't grow it. I bought it. At quite an expense. The girl who sold it to me was compensated very well for her sacrifice. Oh, how Bastien could not tear his eyes away from me that night. The night I first wore it."

The warm memory in her face compelled him to ask, "Did you give it to Tir'alas for love of that recollection?"

"'Tir'alas?'" she pondered, then continued, "Yes. Seeing her in it brought back many fond memories."

Dorian spoke up from his corner, "She's not a memory. She's not a stone, or an oak. She's perfectly fine as she is. Why must you both try to change her?"

The slightest ghosting of chagrin flitted through Solas. "Her nature will never change, but is there something wrong with having her full potential realized?"

"No. Just see to it that in your interference, your manipulation, your damned _sculpting_ ," Dorian huffed, then finished, "you don't lop off something she'll need. That you don't kill the heart of what makes her _her_." With that, his mouth snapped shut and his book rose higher to hide his stormy expression.

Vivienne exchanged a look with Solas. She said, "We seem to have touched on a nerve."

"Perhaps a tactical withdrawal is in order?" Solas replied.

"Agreed. Dorian, sweetie, see you at my salon later?" she said, olive branch hanging in the air.

Dorian sighed, deep and long, and nodded. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Solas." She gave a little bow of farewell.

He returned it. "Madame de Fer."

The circle mage gathered the discarded shoes and made her way back to the mezzanine above the great hall, her split skirts swishing on the stone.

Solas turned to head back downstairs when Dorian stopped him as he passed. The Tevinter said, setting book aside, "I'm serious. Don't make her be what's she's not."

"I had not planned to," replied he, with a tilt of his head.

"Teaching her to read and write is different. It's just another form of communication. The more ways we know to reach out, the better all of us are. It adds. It doesn't take away." Dorian's hand roamed over the cover of the book he'd set down. "Stripping her down to just what high society finds acceptable would be wrong."

"She is not human. She shouldn't be made to be human enough to 'pass,'" agreed Solas.

Dorian sighed and settled back into his chair as he peered up at Solas, a wistful look in his eye. "Is it terribly trite to say, 'wouldn't it be nice if differences were celebrated, rather than despised?'"

"'Tis. And 'twould. Were the world a place where 'nice' was the rule and not the exception, perhaps such a thing would be possible. Alas, it is not."

"' _Alas_.' Ha." Dorian laughed at the unintended double meaning. "So what is all this Tir'alas stuff I've been hearing lately? First that handsome Dalish youth, then the baby, now you. Is it an elf thing?"

"Most things elves do are 'elf things.'"

"That's not an answer."

Solas went with a roundabout explanation. "Names are not the same among the elvhen as they are among the other races. They are not always a permanent fixture. They often change with events that happen in an elf's life." He tried not to feel the sting of memory as he spoke.

"So, we should call her Tir'alas now? I don't wish to offend."

"If you wish. I doubt she will mind." Solas smiled. "I myself find it more pleasant on the tongue."

Dorian's eyes flashed with mischief. "Your _Fade_ -ton-?"

"Don't."

"Ser Solas," said a voice behind him.

A creeping dread slithered up his spine as he turned. As ephemeral as most people seemed to him, this one appeared to his inner senses as a negative, a-a _nothing._ Horror kept wanting to steal over him as he stared at the sunburst on the woman's forehead. "Yes?"

"I have something for the Lady Inquisitor, but she did not turn when I called earlier." The Tranquil stared back at him, emotionless as a rock. "May I impose upon you to deliver these to her quarters?" She indicated the bundle in her arms.

"Can you not ask a servant?" he said, a mite sharply.

"My Lady only has the one. She will allow no others to enter her quarters. And I have not seen the handmaiden about today," Helisma said. "Please, ser. She asked to have this as soon as it was completed. If not you, then perhaps Master Dorian-"

"No," said Dorian, with a dismissing wave. "I have too much to do today. Naps to take, books to throw. My plate is well full."

Shooting the Tevinter a look of annoyance, Solas reached out and took the bundle, shivering as he almost touched the Tranquil's arm. The package clinked in his hands, some several somethings held within. "Fine, I will do it."

"My gratitude, ser," she said as she curtsied, and turned back to her worktable.

Gratitude. Did she even know it? The feeling? Or were the words only extended because of ritual and rote learning? Standard responses. Customary replies. Attached to none of the accompanying emotions.

Pity and abhorrence knotted his guts.

"She used to give me the willies, too," confided Dorian in a whisper. Then he picked up his book once more, flipping idly through the pages. "You get used to it."

Solas did not want to 'get used to it.' He wanted the abomination of the Rite of Tranquility _gone_. And he could do nothing about it as he was now.

If he had the chance, one day he'd unMake it. Forever.

Spinning on one heel, Solas made his way back downstairs and out into the great hall. Varric shot him a smile from where the dwarf leaned against the wall just to Solas's left. "Hey, Chuckles. Fancy meeting you here."

"Varric."

"So, how about that Carnal?" baited the dwarf. Varric's easy manner soothed and smoothed the choppy waters of Solas's equilibrium.

The apostate smirked to hide his inward wince. "Next time, let us do well enough with ale, yes?"

"Aw, but 'well enough' isn't fun. Sometimes you have to go balls out, really cut loose and have some fun."

"'Balls out?' Someone has been spending altogether too much time with Sera."

"She grows on you."

"Like a social disease?"

"Aw, c'mon. I could tell you enjoyed yourself. Admit it."

The elf shook his head at the incorrigible Varric. "There was _some_ enjoyment. Swiftly eclipsed by regrets come morning."

"Chuckles, anyone ever tell you you're kind of a wet blanket?" Varric's mouth turned down at one corner.

"Many times. Tis part of my charm. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a package to deliver to the Inquisitor." Solas showed him the bundle and set about his way.

Behind him, he just heard Varric mutter a lascivious, "I'll just bet you do."

Ignoring the ribald remark and accompanying warm tingle, Solas strode toward the east end.

* * *

 **A/N: Cut! Print! Another chapter in the can. Busy busy. Our little Herald has to learn so much. And so much of it things she'd never thought needful in the slightest. But needs must. Also, hangover!Solas was a bonus haha! Torturing the egg is only justice. Amirite, fellow Solasmancers? Anyway, hope you like it. Gimme some feedback if you want.**


	25. Chapter 25

Ahead of him, an elven servant in frock and bonnet appeared out of the door leading to the war-room. Though from the tray she carried, she'd most likely come up from the kitchens instead.

Head down, she headed for the Inquisitor's door. Just before she entered, her bonnet turned and he caught just the tiniest flash of cheekbone and eye before she was gone. He didn't even have time to flag her down and hand her the package for her mistress.

Reaching the door himself, he paused. Shifting the bundle under his arm, Solas knocked as loud as he dared. The courtiers in the hall tittered and gossiped, paying him no mind.

He knocked again, and heard a faint and muffled, "Go away!"

Frowning, he tested the door. Unlocked, it opened inward under his hand. Solas wandered up the shoddy stone and wood staircase with a curious glance for the lower levels. Scaffolding and support beams ran along the bottom in haphazard fashion. He shook his head at the improvisational mess. The stonemasons could not come soon enough.

Coming to a second door, it too swung open. Hearing muffled curses, he called, "Inquisitor?"

"Solas?" she called back, her head poking over the railing a full story above him. She wore her usual habit of collared shirt and, he presumed, breeches. The top three fastenings on her shirt were open. "What the hell do you _want_? I'm not doing magic today."

Taken aback by her tone, he replied, with similar sharpness, "Helisma had something for you. She asked me to deliver it."

Her lips pursed in a fleeting expression of guilt. "Oh."

After a moment, he snapped, "Shall I just leave it here then?"

As though suddenly aware of her rudeness, she said, "I …. No, bring it up. Please." Then her head disappeared.

He came up onto the landing, where the tower seemed least ruined. A spacious bedroom greeted him, with a generous workspace across from a lavish orlesian bed. Glass doors opened onto balconies on two sides, giving whoever beheld it a breathtaking view of the snowy peaks. A footed bath took up the whole of one corner, large and luxurious. Up to his left, a mezzanine of sorts lurked, shadowed by the dim, late afternoon sun. On the wall over it, a flaked stained mural presided.

Curious. The bed seemed almost sterile, while a myriad of debris cluttered the desk and the worktable. The Inquisitor hunched over something, hands busy at whatever task lay before her.

Solas asked, "Where-?"

She looked up and frowned. With a brusque gesture, she waved at the empty space at the end of her desk. "Here. I'm in the middle of something, so forgive me for—" She gave him a pained look of apology.

"What matters a few more feet?" As he set the bundle where she indicated, he spotted the tray with her dinner on it and it reminded him. "Where is your handmaiden? I could have sworn I saw her come in before me."

She looked around, all haste and irritation. "Oh, she comes and goes. She probably slipped down while you were walking over here."

Curiouser and curiouser. One would think he'd have heard the doors below open and close.

Her cursing pulled him from his suspicious thoughts—

"Su an'banal i'ma!" she hissed, throwing down a metal tool. With a disgusted sigh, she sat in her chair and steepled her fingers before her face.

"I'm not sure the Void will _want_ to take a … what is this again?" Solas said as he picked up the slender instrument.

"A pipette. Copper pipette," she grumbled, not looking up from her dire brooding. "And I meant the whole damn thing, not just that."

In front of her, on a velvet cloth, lay all manner of devices he recognized from the practice of alchemy. "May I ask what you are doing?"

She snorted. "Failing."

Solas rolled his eyes. "Obviously. But what are you failing _at_ , precisely?"

She shot him a sour look, then swept a hand over the tools. "What you see before you is every measure and scale, every metric and ruler in Skyhold."

"And what about them is so vexing?"

"They are not precise enough. Or I can't figure the conversions well enough or …." Her words trailed off. She sighed. "This is _not_ how I was taught. These glass and metal things confound my understanding of alchemy."

Solas said, "You are a fine alchemist. If these are not your customary tools, then why use them at all? If you've better means?"

She threw her hands up in the air. "Because I can't explain it to anyone else. I can't write it all down in a way that makes sense." Her hand rested over a thick, stained book. From the profile of the mismatched, off-size pages, they'd seen better days, warped, wrinkled, tattered things that they were.

"May I?" asked Solas.

Tir'alas shrugged and pushed it toward him.

He picked it up and opened it to the first loose page, reading it aloud, "'For Adan, who was nice for an asshole.'" Mirth twisted his mouth and flared his nostrils, but he would not let it escape.

The Inquisitor glared daggers at him. "Are you laughing at me, lethallin?"

"It is an … interesting dedication." He continued to rifle through the pages. Crammed into every square inch, a jumble of recipes, nonsensically phrased or outright misspelled. They floated around pressed remains of herbs and other plants. Notes on uses, dosages, and similar dotted margins. The more he looked, the more it amazed him. He'd never dreamed there could be so many uses for simple poppy. The presentation could use a large dose of clarity, however. No one unused to deciphering difficult texts could understand it as written. "Hmm. May I make a suggestion?"

"I should scrap it, right?" she said, with a deep sigh.

"No, no. This is a wonderful idea. The execution is … artless." He made to pat the page when she reached out to stop him.

"Don't touch that leaf. Unless you _want_ itchy hives for a week."

"Artless and _dangerous_ , apparently." He set the book down, closing it before he inadvertently poisoned himself.

"What is your 'suggestion?'" she said, with a flash of bared teeth.

Solas half sat on her desk and looked out the windows for a moment. "If you want this book to spread wide, then you can't press plants into every copy. However, a detailed illustration will do the same job minus the danger."

A light grew in her eyes and her brows ceased scolding him. They lifted. As did the corners of her mouth. "What if we made two books? One for medicinals and the other for … everything else."

The tiny pause intrigued him as to the nature of 'everything else,' but he nodded and teased, "'We?'"

"I cannot draw with the skill required. You clearly can." She lit up with the idea of it, her hands dropping from their stiff deliberation to grab the edge of her desk. "I can write the recipes, clearer now than when I started and— Oh, but that still leaves the original problem. How do I translate the measures I know to something everyone else will understand?" She collapsed back into the cushion of the chair, disappointed.

Solas hummed as he half-turned to look at the instruments again. "If these cannot do the work, then we will have to find or create _new_ means that do."

"'We?'" she repeated softly, her grey eyes meeting his. The excitement and joy he saw there sparked the same within him. He matched her grin with a smile of his own.

"We will find the way together," he promised. Anything to see that rush of hope in her eyes. Then, before his feelings got the best of him, he amended, with barely a hitch, "For your book. Er, books."

Solas leaned away, suddenly aware that he'd bent toward her. He looked at her askance and saw the question in her expression, the darkening of doubt. Clearing his throat, he said, despite his earlier assertion to say nothing, "About last night …."

He had no idea how to end that sentence.

Tir'alas shook her head. "No need. I know well the effect of wormwood. Have taken it myself to see the world a little brighter, a little more … weird and whimsical." Her hand reached out to squeeze his knee.

A jolt ran up his thigh from that simple touch, landing somewhere in the vicinity of his navel. There it coiled around the shame that also afflicted him. Conflicting emotions assailed Solas, leaving him silent, dangling over some hidden precipice.

She stood, abrupt. Solas started with the suddenness of it. Tir'alas said, "I'll go get some blank pages from Josie. She said I could have as many as I wanted." Her gaze turned mischievous. "Maybe I'll take it all."

He laughed. "And leave her without til spring? Cruel."

"A little hardship never hurt anyone. Killed maybe, but the survivors prosper for the adversity. Maybe doing without will teach her _how_ to do without." She smiled, dark and deadly. Strange how that made her even more attractive. She swung around him and walked for the stairs down to her door. "I'll be right back."

Then she turned back to him with a searching look. "Unless you have something better to do today?"

He thought. "Nothing that requires my immediate attention, no. Besides, I am eager to start, and intrigued by this project."

She flashed a wide, joyous grin his way, open and sincere. Then she dropped out of sight.

Solas let out the breath he'd sucked in at the sight of that smile, those dimples. Then he closed his eyes in self-recrimination. Had he really just committed to spending a significant amount of time at her side working on these manuscripts? Considering his body's reaction, his lack of control in regards to her, it couldn't _be_ more unwise to remain in her presence.

Why did he always find ways to torture himself like this?

But then that look on her face appeared in his memory. No. He couldn't back out now. Not for anything.

Seriously wondering if masochism appealed to him, he pulled her spare chair up to the desk and sat, waiting.

* * *

Spring came and brought a few surprises blustering into Skyhold with the vernal wind.

An arcanist appeared at their door. A dwarven woman named Dagna. She quickly took over the Undercroft, filling the sorely needed position of smith and wonderworker. There were other blacksmiths in Skyhold, but they could not hope to meet special requirements beyond arming and outfitting the soldiers.

Secondly, another orphan appeared, shaved the same as the last and just as young. Tir'alas stood at the gate of Skyhold, shaking her head as the Dalish courier rode up with the child riding pillion. Yet still she did not send the boychild away. She took him by the hand and lifted him onto one hip. Her other hand wiped the tears from his rounded, babyish face with an admonition.

"At this rate, we're going to have to build an orphanage _in_ Skyhold," commented Varric, standing with Solas on the tower overlooking the exchange. "I wonder what the hell is going on."

"I admit to some curiosity myself. She will not say, though, stubborn woman that she is."

"Ha! Understatement of the age." Varric hummed to himself. "Though I have to tell you. Having kids around doesn't really bother me like I thought it would."

Solas smiled. "It _is_ hard to remain grim and cynical while witnessing the Iron Bull play the horned mount for Alouette. Charging to and fro around the castle."

A long line of tradesmen and merchants, refugees and hopefuls queued at the gatehouse. Tir'alas left the sorting to the guards, taking her new charge into the great hall. A dark dot appeared at the end of the line. Solas squinted to see a bit better.

Tall, human, dark hair and beard. And a staff that crackled with power. The apostate could smell magic wafting off the man from here.

Varric followed his line of sight and then sighed, resigned. "Shit."

Solas turned a questioning eye on him.

"You know how they say bad news travels in threes? Well, here comes my bit of bad news." The dwarf turned and headed for the stairs down. Solas watched as Varric strode forth along the bridge like a man heading into uncertain waters.

The dwarf paused as he reached the man, shuffling in awkwardness. To Solas's great surprise, the human pulled Varric close and embraced him, engulfing him in burly arms. The smile and boisterous laugh carried loudly on the wind. Nonplussed, Solas frowned.

Varric seemed to take it in stride, even cracking a joke Solas couldn't hear, though from the way that other apostate shook with mirth, it seemed well received. Then he watched the pair part. The human headed toward the encampments by the river, while Varric strode back into Skyhold. His eye caught Solas's with a plea for secrecy.

Solas nodded. It cost him nothing to do so, that he could tell. Varric nodded in respect and headed for the tavern.

"He hopes for luck. Timing like the sharp catch on a pressure switch. To trip is to die," said a voice to Solas's right. "To watch his best friend die."

"Hello, Cole," said Solas, leaning on his staff. He turned his head a fraction to see the pale spirit appear at his side. "How are you today?"

"Days, when the light comes. Then it goes. Where does it go?" Cole seemed even more distant than usual. His physical presence less certain than before, tenuous and thin. It made him blurry in places.

"The other side of the world. The sun never sleeps. He shines on faraway lands during the nights."

"It's bigger, heavier than they think. It drags when it should fly. Will the world ever be light again?"

"Perhaps. With slow and deliberate measures."

"Measures. Measurement. Her hands weave patterns he can almost see. A language he can almost hear for himself. How he'd loved to hear her finally speak it."

Warmth suffused his being. "Yes, the books are almost done. Tir'alas wants to gather more herbs. Plants she didn't have a chance to harvest or preserve before the winter."

"Will Pride ever bend enough to say the words?" Cole asked, showing his usual lack of diplomacy.

Knowing the spirit meant no harm, Solas heaved a sad sigh over the thudding of his heart. "Perhaps. With slow and deliberate measures."

* * *

A/N: Well, spring is back. After a busy and hard winter, the Inquisition can renew their efforts. Yay! I love Cole. I love his characterization in the game and his conversations with Solas. He is literally too precious for this world. lol. But he sticks around in it anyway, doing his sweet spirit voodoo. I hope DA4 has more Cole, though I doubts it. Oh well. I suppose we should be grateful to get whatever morsels we can get. I hope Bioware makes games forever. Bioware fuh-evar.


	26. Chapter 26

The newly-named Moineau sat on the scaffolding and swung his skinny little legs. Solas found the elven child's bold and steady stare a tad disconcerting. Crumbs fell from where the cookie in Moineau's hand met his stained mouth.

This early, none but he and the Spymaster tended to be in the rotunda and library. He liked the quiet noises of predawn. Leliana shuffling paper, the ravens' occasional caw or rustle of feather. And now it seemed the elven child's cookie crunching must join that soft symphony.

Solas did his best to ignore the boy as he painstakingly rendered a single petal of dawn lotus. A pile of drawings lay by his right hand, ready for inscription, then insertion into the Tir'alas's tome.

"Moineau, little sparrow, where did you run off to?" said the Spymaster, from above. Then her hooded head popped over the third story railing. "Oh, there you are. Is he bothering you, Solas?"

"Not as such, though I have some dangerous plant cuttings here." Solas turned to see the boy scowl at him in almost adult consternation. The apostate smiled. "But I do not think he will be foolish enough to bother with them."

"He is a very bright boy, though a touch of a troublemaker," said she, with fond appraisal in her eyes. It seemed attending to the children lifted the Spymaster's occupational grimness. Who could have guessed the dangerous, vicious woman would have a soft spot so endearingly everyday?

"A touch of trouble is a good thing, Spymaster. It will lead to being more curious and adventurous."

Leliana laughed, and said, "Why do I think perhaps you have firsthand experience there?"

Solas smiled, light and full of humor. "As do you, Left Hand of the Divine."

"Touche, messere. I did _love_ trouble as a young thing. Trouble was my mistress, my companion, my one true love. Even now, we meet occasionally to catch up."

The Inquisitor swept in, covered in sweat and mud and practice clothes. Blood coated the wraps over her knuckles. She walked over to Solas, with a rushed, "Solas, I had a thought. What if we had a chapter, a foreword, to define the new instruments. How to make them and-"

Then she spotted the boy. Solas watched the words dry up in her mouth as she straightened with a frown. She called to the redhead still watching upstairs, "Leliana, you said you would watch them."

The Spymaster frowned herself. "Do you not see me? I _am_ watching them, Inquisitor. Alouette is right here feeding the ravens. " Then she looked around, puzzled. "She _was_ right here."

" _Alouette_ is in the yard with Sera. If you cannot keep track of them, find someone who will."

"They are fine. No one in Skyhold would harm them." Leliana's voice sharpened, "Why does it concern you? You haven't spent more than five minutes with either one in the entire time they've been here."

"Shall I dote on them like you? Stuff them with sweets, give them frilly little frocks and coats? They are not pets!" she scoffed. Then she turned to Moineau and mouthed 'go' and pointed up. With a hurt wince, the boy scrambled up the wall like a monkey, deft little fingers finding cracks and crevices in the worn stone.

Solas watched the exchange with sympathy for the boy.

Leliana called, "Well, until you see fit to tell us why they _are_ here, don't expect me to just stand by and let you neglect them!"

Tir'alas looked stricken for a second, before she spun on a bare heel and stomped out the exterior door.

"I swear she does not have a kind bone in her body," said Leliana, in a low cold voice. "Come, Moineau, let us go collect your sister."

The boy asked, "Alouette is my sister?"

"She is now," the Spymaster said, smile in her firm voice.

Solas heard them exit by the second floor and turned to consider the door Tir'alas had left through. He crossed the floor in a few, efficient steps and went outside. As he'd suspected, the Inquisitor still lingered, leaning on the wall of the tower walkway. The sun had just crested the horizon and lit a fire in her shoulder-length hair.

"Not fond of children?" he asked, keeping his tone light.

She spun, startled. Solas watched as she forced herself to calm, at least on the surface. Then she scowled. "I have said I will not speak on this subject."

"I'm aware." He held up his hands before her glower. "Leliana thinks you are unkind to them. But I have watched you more closely than she has. You don't dislike them." He leaned one elbow on the wall and turned her chin toward him so he could see the truth in her face. "You are afraid of them."

Shocked, she opened her mouth, then shut it with a snap. Her wide, unblinking eyes told him all, confirming his assertion. She yanked her chin out of his hand and looked away.

"Or rather," he continued. "Something they represent. What is it, lethallan? Why do you quake so when you are near them?"

She shivered now, in her loose linen garb. Hands clenched and unclenched where they rested on the crenellations. Then she whispered, horrified, "I am afraid of myself around them."

His brows drew up and when she did not say anything else, he touched her hand. She jerked away in reflex. He said, "Tir'alas-"

Then she swung around and leapt into him, wrapping her arms around his middle. He took a step back to recover his balance and his wits.

At a loss and breathless, Solas stared at her black-haired head where it rested on his chest. Slow, as though she might evaporate, his arms rose. They curled around her shoulders, embracing her back as fully as he could. His one hand came up to smooth her wild locks.

Her whole body shook against his, tormented by some hidden pain. Solas pressed his cheek to her head, trying to calm, to soothe with wordless murmurs. She seemed so fragile just then.

What a study in contrasts; this woman. At once, light and shadow. Strong and weak. Brave and frightened.

Utterly … _real_.

She took in a hitching breath and whispered, "Tomorrow, I leave."

Solas closed his eyes and swallowed the fear-spawned lump in his throat. "For the Storm Coast once more. With Bull and the others."

"I wish you were coming with us."

A longing to do just that filled him, but he pushed it aside. "We talked about this. You need to fly free. To test the limits of your magic."

"'Free?' What is free? Whatever that is, I am not it. I have never been it." She shuddered again and clutched tighter to his waist. "How I envy you."

"Envy _me_?" He chuckled, sorrowful. A pang jabbed him through the heart. No one had ever said that to him before. No one should.

"Yes. You could walk away from here today. No ties keep you bound to this place, this cause," she said, sniffing. " _You_ are free."

 _How wrong you are, lethallan._ But he did not say it aloud. Instead, he said, "I would not. I, too, have … fetters keeping me here. Duty. People. Like you."

She pulled back to look at him in the face, as though testing his earnestness. Her brow smoothed at what she must have found in his eyes, for she tucked her face into his collarbone again and relaxed. Every taut muscle unwound and she melted into softness in his arms.

Their embrace became more intimate, but less tense. A level of comfort in closeness achieved.

He breathed in her earthy scent, still tinged with blood and sweat, and just held her for as long as she wanted to let him.

"Tell me I'm ready," she pleaded, quiet as the breeze ruffling her hair.

Solas gave her a warm squeeze. "You are ready."

When she left the next day, seated like a queen on the red hart, bladed staff at her back, he stood in the cheering crowd. Ignoring the fear squirming in his entrails, Solas waved when she spotted him. The brightness of her smile seemed just for him and how it thawed the cold core that lay deep within.

' _Be safe.'_ he mouthed. _Be safe and come back to me._

 _Ma Tir'alas._

 _Ma vhenan._

* * *

He slipped out with the pilgrims that made evening excursions to the camps below Skyhold. Dressed much like they, Solas let himself be pulled along in the stream of humanity, just another hooded and cloaked missionary, delivering bread and succor to the masses.

Slowly, he worked his way to the edge of the group, then darted off into the woods. Gone before anyone was the wiser.

Breathing easier, Solas ran through the dense pines that dotted the snowy foothills around Skyhold. His senses alert for any interloper, he made his way to a thick copse at the base of the northeast face of the mountain. The pounding of water from above made him glance up. The waterfall flooded out of the ruined dungeons of the fortress in rocky tiers to plunge into the river that ran alongside Solas. The wide pool at the cliff base churned and frothed, a maelstrom.

The swirling chaos reflected his own inner turmoil.

He picked his way along the rocks behind the waterfall until he found a small recess. Breathing deep, he sighed in relief that no one had found this place. That it remained undefiled.

Nothing but a rocky alcove to the naked eye, Solas reached for the truth behind the illusion. The wall shimmered and blinked out of existence, revealing a domed antechamber. Crafted stone floors in hues unknown to any mortal eye stretched under his wrapped feet. Faded murals adorned the whole of the curving wall, familiar and sorrow-invoking.

Fingers drifted out to trace along those murals. He remembered every stroke, every line and mixed tint. A distraction to fill his days when not crafting the Great Work.

Sighing, Solas finally turned to the centerpiece of the chamber. A mirror, clouded gold in tarnished frame, sang to him a song made from his own bones. His own spirit.

The eluvian sat, un-activated but calling, begging for the touch of its master once again. One of the few remaining mirrors in its network whole enough to sing, it wept for loneliness.

He sat before it in meditational repose and called, "Ir'arla." _I am home._

The passphrase echoed as it bounced around the chamber, gathering strange resonances with every revolution. Glowing with a growing radiance, the eluvian's surface began to warp and ripple. With a sound more felt than heard, the door into the Beyond opened.

In the shadows past the portal, Solas saw a shape emerge. He tensed then relaxed as he recognized its aura. _Her_ aura.

A leg encased in crimson armor led, then hip, torso, a swinging arm. Finally, a face, human in aspect, topped in palest frost. A spiked crown sat on her head. Hair flowed back into shapes reminiscent of the horns of her other seeming. She strode through the eluvian and filled the chamber with her awe-inspiring presence to the brim.

Her face broke into a warm, sad smile. "Ma'fen."

Solas averted his eyes and bowed his head in deepest respect. "Mythal."

She laughed, then said, "Do stand. You never played the penitent well."

With an uncertain smile of his own, he stood before her. The evidence of age, the ravages of time carved into her very flesh drew his eye, and painted deepest sorrow on his soul.

She should not be _old_ , this shard of the immortal, exalted being he once knew. She should not have needed to take refuge in frail, decaying human skin.

She should never have been murdered.

His fault.

 _His_ unforgivable inattentiveness that led her to become vulnerable to the Evanuris' schemes.

Her hand touched his cheek. She said, with a frown, "Oh, stop it, Fen'harel. My wrinkles are not there to torment you. We none of us can undo the past, only seek to undo the damage caused by our mistakes. And I refuse to begrudge you the freedom you took for yourself."

"You should." Solas remembered it well, the day he'd stood before her, un-bent, _un-abased_. He'd stared at her face, watched it contort in surprise, rage and … pride.

 _Proud_ of _him_ for elevating himself to her side, rather than stay at her heel. He'd been the first to rip the vallaslin from his flesh, his spirit. Cutting away a part of himself to be free. He still felt the trickle of blood down his visage.

He said, "It was wrong to run from you when I knew Elgar'nan fell to madness long before."

"You were joyful, and I would not have denied it to you even had I known what knives lurked in the dark. Anyway, I always did enjoy watching you run." Mythal looked around in interest. "I knew you would call, but I didn't expect you to open _this_ particular door. Where is the sky? I remember how the midday sun would make rainbows dance under my feet."

"When I knew this place would be left to whomever might find it, I dreamed a mountain on top of it."

"A caern for broken hope," she mused. "You were always the dramatic one."

"Says the one who takes the dragon for her own," he teased.

Mythal chuckled. "Ah, there you are, at last. My rebel."

He laughed with her.

Then she said, "I feel a host of souls above us."

"While I slept below, various … 'interests' had come and gone to occupy what they think of as sacred grounds of the ancient Elvhen. I discerned what I could from the endless dreaming of uth'en'era. They built a fortress on this site. Currently, it is held by the Inquisition."

"Ah, so _that's_ what has the girl so interested of late. She stands at one Empress's side, yet seeks to pull strings at every throne in Thedas. Her fingers find more and more skeins in which to tangle. She is truly her mother's daughter," said she, with a satisfied hum. At his questioning look, she continued, "I watch. From an appropriate distance of course. Which is, to her eternal dismay should she ever find out, not very far at all. Always a murmur just out of earshot. Right around the corner, but out of sight. I love to haunt her."

Then her eyes pinned him. "So you have joined this Inquisition, ostensibly to … help?"

He nodded. "It is led by one of the People."

Something in his voice must have given him away, for her sharp gaze sharpened further. "Is it? I'd heard something of the sort. A woman. A Herald of their martyred saint, Andraste. She must be quite … intriguing."

A tingle along his spine set off a tightening of his frame. She saw it. Of course she saw it. He'd never been able to hide anything from her.

"Well, she certainly has your attention. Do you have hers?" Mythal asked, curiosity and some other emotion dancing in her eyes. "I don't think I need to tell you how entanglements will complicate what you are trying to accomplish. Should she really _see_ you …."

"She won't," he asserted, with a shake of his head. His gaze found the floor. "I dare not risk it-" He cut himself off, for he thought of all he had already risked. All he'd already conceded to Tir'alas. His private yearnings. His hopeless dreams. His fool heart.

What would she do if she knew?

His throat closed on a pained exhale. She'd hate him for using her. Send him away.

Wouldn't she?

Her hand touched his chin and pulled his gaze up to meet hers. She said, "How far has it gone?"

The answer must have sprung from his eyes, for she dropped her hand. "My wolf. You always take the hardest path. No road will satisfy you unless it has every briar and thorn strewn across it."

Sighing, Solas nodded. "I did not mean for it to happen."

"A mantra well-rehearsed and repeated by anyone who 'means.' I can feel you wavering." Mythal hummed and continued, "I have seen you love, and I have seen you broken. But I have never before witnessed you stray from purpose because of either. Is this, is _she_ , so different?"

His silence could fill a library.

"Perhaps that, too, has some deeper meaning?" she then asked, coaxing him with hands held palm up.

After a minute of dangerous internal debate, he said, "It does not matter. I will do what is necessary. You will have your vengeance. And the People will be restored."

Mythal sighed. "As much as I appreciate your many sacrifices, my vengeance may come by many roads. It all comes full circle whether we help it along or not."

"If I don't do this, then all those sacrifices mean nothing." Dead Felassan flashed before his eyes. His friend. His failure. His fault. "None of it will," he stated, cold tone masking his confusion at her sudden reticence. Or had it been sudden at all? Now, doubt tickled him. "It has to be unMade. I have to fix it."

"Even if fixing it means enduring the loss of what is?" She gestured upward, indicating everything that had come to be real to him over the last two years. All those people ….

 _Ma Tir'alas_ ….

"Even so." Despair almost choked him.

"Is there no other way?" Something in her tone drew a suspicion from him. What did she know that he did not? She smiled before his piercing look. "Have you even thought about it?"

When she turned back to the eluvian, he followed her gaze to where the Great Work stood. And the cradle in which had once sat an innocuously small orb.

… Yes.

 _Yes._

Ever since he'd woken in this nightmarish place, he'd sought only to tear down the Veil. He'd built it. He knew how to do so. With quickened orb in hand, it would happen in a matter of seconds. One monumental tug and the blindness holding the Beyond back would fall, restoring the world to the malleable, half-solid state it had been created in.

But what if-?

He balked at what loomed ahead on that other path. He could barely let himself think it.

Oh, but it would be a long Working and he would have to learn so much. He'd need help. More help than just his few agents in the world.

And he was so much less than he used to be.

Impossible.

Mythal leaned close and whispered into his ear, full of portent, "What happens when the coin lands on its edge?"

The whisper seemed to echo in the antechamber, becoming a sussuration of ghostly murmurings.

He shivered. "The impossible."

Such gaping promise threatened to swallow him into the abyss. Did he dare? Could he truly defy that which he'd always held before him as the only road and possibly damn everything on the slimmest chance imaginable?

That he could somehow find a way to save the 'then' _and_ the 'now?'

If he failed yet again, nothing could be salvaged of the now. Everything and everyone would be damned. Forever. No restoration for the People. No world left for any of them to reside upon.

Terror sought to steal his feet from under him. He could only stare at Mythal, baring the anguish torn from within him by her gift of terrible ... _merciless …_ hope.

Pitying, she said, "And if hope should still fail, at least you will have had it."

Clenching his eyes shut, he gritted his bared teeth. His hands came up to cover his face. "It doesn't change the path. Only the endgame. I will still have to obtain the orb."

"You'd already resigned yourself anyway." She held him then, thin arms grasping with surprising strength. "As I did long ago."

Taking what comfort he could, he rested his cheek on her strong shoulder, much as he had when he'd been new. "She will turn from me when she learns the truth."

He didn't say 'if.'

Even he could see that one day, she'd know. "Even if I _can_ somehow preserve her and her people. Her world."

"Hmm." Mythal rocked him, a gentle soothing sway. "Probably. Who can say? Safer for her if she does."

The lump in his throat grew, throttling his breath. "Yes, it is."

"There is only so much one can hope for. Pick your battles wisely, old friend. Defeat Corypheus. Regain your orb and the mantle you lost. Then see about what future you can salvage." She thrust him back and held him by the shoulders. "Now. Be cautious, Fen'harel. The tightrope only gets thinner, the razor's narrowing edge only more cutting."

He had to smile at her maternal concern. Taking her hand, he turned it to lay a kiss in her palm. The act of a supplicant. "Mythal."

Charmed, she smiled and patted his cheek. "My beautiful Solas. This world does not deserve you. It never did. But I'm also not _too_ sorry I made you a part of it."

Mythal turned on her heel and strode back through the eluvian. Turning at the last moment, she called, "And do come visit me more often. You know how I worry."

Solas nodded, smile bittersweet.

Then she was gone.

The eluvian shimmered and solidified, closing.

He pulled a deep breath of ancient air into his lungs and let it out in a ragged sigh. Already his mind started weaving new plans. Plans within plans.

A game within a game.

One he'd have to play so close to his chest that none could ever see it, for the hope that had written itself into his soul seemed about as strong and solid and _safe_ as a soap bubble. He despaired of ever managing it.

But his feet _flew_ back to Skyhold. As expected, no one had noted his absence. His rotunda, so like the chamber directly below it, welcomed him back. People chattered above, laughing, cajoling. They taunted. They consoled each other.

They _lived_.

Solas could hardly hold still as he listened. The idea that perhaps they could _all_ be saved took root and grew, a vine that threaded through his whole being. His heart seemed overfull, fit to bursting out of his ribcage.

He would try.

* * *

 **A/N: Only now does he even try to think of alternatives. That silly Solas. Perhaps the path is not as straightforward as he thought. I don't think a character as empathetic as Solas spent the WHOLE game denying the 'realness' of the people around him. I really think he tried to find another way. That's just my opinion, though. Anyway, hope the winter weather is being kind to everyone out there. Stay warm! :)**


	27. Chapter 27

f"I knew it!" Leliana hissed. In the dead air of night, her whisper carried through the whole abandoned library. " _Putain_ , je le savais!"

Solas opened his eyes from where he'd just lain down to seek the Fade. Just moments ago, he'd witnessed a grim-faced agent, bundle of something under his arm, stalk up there, slow, determined steps drumming on stone. Even the apostate could tell the man had bad news to impart.

Curious despite himself, Solas got up and made his way to the top of the rotunda. Ravens croaked harsh hellos to him as he mounted the last few steps.

The Spymaster waved her hand at her agent, dismissing him. The man turned, face pale. His flight back down considerably faster now his ill-omened burden had been delivered.

Solas approached the fuming Leliana. Her hands wrung on empty air. Shoulders shook with fury.

Clearing his throat, he said, "Anything you'd like to share? I'm always happy to listen."

Leliana shot him a look that burned with such _hate_ , but it softened when she seemed to realize he was not the source of her ire. She sucked a hissing breath into her lungs and let it out with a huff. "Might as well tell you. We all need to prepare ourselves for this danger."

She gestured to the scraps of hide on her table. Solas walked to the edge and looked for himself what had her so vexed.

Like pages, the small sheets of scraped animal hide lay in a neat stack. Peeling away the blank top hide, he stopped, amazed at the likeness drawn into it. It seemed so lifelike that he might reach in and touch that face. The only thing that broke that illusion was the reddish-brown stain in the shape of a handprint stamped over the whole thing. He scratched at the edge of that stain and asked, "Blood?"

"Yes. Most likely, _his_ ," she replied, tapping the drawing. "Look." Then she started fanning them out and he could see that every sheet had a face on it. And most had the handprint. Leliana said, "I knew some of these people. The marked ones? All dead. All died under mysterious circumstances. Well, not so mysterious now. _Now_ , it's all plainly murder."

Solas considered, then said, "Where did you find this?"

"Cullen's excavation team at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It was hidden under a loose stone in the bell tower along the pilgrim's path." A strange sort of satisfaction floated around in the Spymaster's eyes.

"So, this is the work of your 'Rasdalelan,'" said he, recalling their earlier conversation. "As you suspected, they were at the Conclave."

"Yes."

"Then they must have died," he reasoned.

"So we would all hope, but," she started, then she jabbed at her stack of reports. "I've been hearing whispers. Similar killings are still going on. Not many. Just a few. But if even one is the work of this assassin, then it proves the Rasdalelan is still very much alive. And behold—!"

She flipped to the last hide drawing. There, in ink and watercolor, Divine Justinia V, in full regalia. The artist had caught her with a soft, indulgent smile on her face. Strange that such a moment could be captured and put into the rendering. Solas wondered if the likeness was done with magic.

No bloody handprint sullied her aged face.

"The damned monster's target was none other than our Most Holy!"

"Hmmm. So it seems," he said, a suspicion dawning in the back of his mind. Looking at the murderous hate in Leliana's eyes, he kept himself from voicing it. Instead, he said, "Perhaps they had luck on their side. Perhaps the Conclave explosion happened before they actually entered."

"Perhaps. That seems logical," she mused. "Lots of possibilities come to mind. One thing is for certain."

Solas just kept himself from tensing. "And what is that?"

"Tir'alas is in danger. With this assassin alive …. With their particular penchant for killing leaders and nobles and the like, I can't imagine a more tempting target than the leader of the Inquisition." The Spymaster stood straight, certainty shining from her hard eyes.

"I agree. She is in danger." The apostate echoed her stance, tone neutral. He ventured, "I assume you have measures you can take?"

"If I know her, she will not stay in Skyhold where I can make sure she is safe. Also, we need her out there, closing rifts and bringing stability back to conflict-heavy regions. I can only send more spies and guards to watch her back and try to catch this Rasdalelan before he or she strikes." Leliana sighed. "And hope it is enough."

"With grave forethought and planning, it will no doubt be enough," said Solas, clasping his hands behind his back.

A runner sprinted up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Panting, he slid to a stop before Leliana and handed her a crumpled note.

Brows lifting, the Spymaster opened it and read in silence. Her lips frowned, then pulled into a concerned grimace. She shot Solas a worried look. "The Inquisitor has sent word to have you and Cole ride out for the Storm Coast."

Guts dropping, Solas said, "Something has gone wrong."

"It's tagged 'most urgent.'"

Solas's feet turned him before he even thought to will them to do so.

"Solas," called the Spymaster. He turned at the stairs to see her looking back at him with a tight, thin-lipped expression. She said, "Keep her safe."

"I shall." With that, he bounded down the stairs, and gathered his travel things. He met Cole at the gate. The spirit had the reins of two fully equipped horses in his limp hand. The mounts could have broken away with hardly a yank, but they seemed to sense the boy's gentler nature.

Solemn, Cole watched him approach. He said, "The world is trembling. Staggering, stalling, stumbling."

"I know. We go to help her." Solas swung up into saddle, with hardly a break in his stride. Cole followed suit.

With a shout and a cruel dig of his heels, Solas spun the horse and bade it gallop as hard as it could.

As they pounded down the road, Solas thought about those dozen or so drawings and what they could mean. The conjecture that kept pressing him shouted louder, becoming near certainty the longer he thought about it. Lots of little things started to add up.

But he could not truly know for certain until _she_ confirmed it herself. But how to start the delicate task of unraveling it all?

How to let her know about the danger that grew behind him in that fortress?

Leliana said, in memory, ' _Keep her safe.'_

And he would.

From everybody.

* * *

Four days hard ride it took them, with him using magic to prolong the steeds' stamina. Shouting friendly intention to the sentry, Solas rode right into center of the camp. The horses kicked up a cloud of dust as he brought them up short.

The grim look on every soldier's face made his innards quake. He slid off the mount and called, "Inquisitor? Tir'alas?"

The nearest tent flap opened. Her head popped out, a look of pained relief on her face. "Solas. Thank the Creators."

Seeing her whole and hale quieted some of the fear, but her tight expression heralded bad news. She beckoned him with frantic waves and he strode forth, ducking into the tent after her.

Two inert forms lay on bedrolls before him. Cassandra and Blackwall. By their pallor, thready breaths and host of bandages, they hovered near death. The Inquisitor dropped to her knees between them. He did the same.

"I'm out of mana and potions. I think I've denuded the whole damn country of elfroot just in the last few days. And I forgot the fucking lyrium again-" Tir'alas raved, hands yanking at her hair, pulling it into complete disarray. "I don't know what to—"

Taking her hands and putting them in her lap, Solas said, firm, "Do not panic."

He unshouldered his pack and reached into it, pulling out a dozen glowing blue flasks. He set them on the ground between the two injured companions. With a deep breath, he held his hands over Cassandra. Magic came to his call, searching, sussing out the extent of the damage.

And extensive it was. Injuries that would have no doubt killed them in minutes if not for the healing arts of the woman beside him. The tang and tingle of elfroot potions still rang in the Seeker's blood. But internal bleeding had only slowed, not stopped. Broken bones lay like jagged splinters in arms and legs, feet and hands and ribs. Like she'd been hit with a giant boulder.

Turning to Blackwall, he found similar. The most worrying, a spinal fracture.

Biting his lip, Solas said, "Where is Bull?"

"Alive. He's … hurting, but not where you can see," she said, shame filling every line of her body. "He's still on the beach, burying the dead."

Just then, he noticed the silence in the camp. The morning they'd left jumped to the forefront of his memory. A loud and boisterous crew, they. The Inquisitor, Cassandra, Blackwall and Bull. At the front of a ragtag group of mirthful mercenaries. How the jabs and jests had flown as they rode away and out of sight.

Solas asked, though he knew the answer, "Where are the Chargers?"

The color drained from her face, highlighting the damned mark of Dirthamen inked all over her face. Her mouth opened to emit a hollow, "I fucked up."

Unwilling to explore that for now, with the dire condition of two comrades in need of healing, he shook his head and looked away. "I will start with Blackwall. When I ask, give me the lyrium."

Hours and hours went by as he worked, tuning everything out but the task at hand. Soon the buzz of lyrium overuse shut down any senses but the magical ones. Half-blinded, he felt and repaired the worst of the pair's injuries. Bones knit, muscles reconnected to tendon, ruptured spleens ceased pumping vital fluids into unwelcoming cavities.

Solas collapsed at the end of the Working, panting, trying to catch his breath. He whispered, voice no louder than a hoarse rasp, "They will live. Whether … Blackwall will walk again … is … uncertain."

Hands grabbed the front of his tunic and shifted him around to lay parallel to the resting patients. He dimly heard the Inquisitor say, "Cole, help me lift him onto this bedroll."

Unable to move, he could only let them manhandle him. Soon he found himself comfortable, cushioned by pillow and warmed by blanket. A hand stroked over his pate for a moment, before lifting away. He wished he still had the energy to speak, for he'd ask that it continue. It felt … nice.

As he fell deeper into darkness, he heard Cole say, "He would ask the hand how it can be so kind when so much blood coats it. He would know why a healer kills."

Tir'alas stopped breathing. Then she said, "Cole, Solas's thoughts are his own. Some things should stay private."

"But he _wanted_ to ask. He will ask. Soon."

"I can't s-" and the rest of her response got lost in the howling wind that drew him into the Fade's embrace.

* * *

He woke to the quiet chatter of Cassandra and Tir'alas.

"It was my fault," said the Inquisitor, soft and remorseful. Her long fingers combed through Cassandra's short, sweaty hair.

"You did as you felt you needed to," Cassandra replied, closing her eyes and leaning into the Inquisitor's comforting touch. "Risk the alliance with the Qunari or let good men and women die. It is always a hard choice. I do not envy you the position being Inquisitor puts you in sometimes."

"But did I have to compound my mistakes by nearly getting us _all_ killed? Tell me honestly, Cass," she pleaded.

The Seeker sighed and reached out to squeeze Tir'alas's other hand. "You split our efforts unwisely, yes. We could not have done both without more support. Sometimes, you cannot save everybody."

Tir'alas shook. "I'm not fit to lead, am I?"

Cassandra gave her a little yank by the hand. "I have never met anyone _more_ fit to lead, Inquisitor. I would have thought less of any commander that took either loss at face value. Then, the fact that you tried, you _dared_ and almost _succeeded_ … astounds me. You did not hesitate. You did not falter. But you have to accept that failure is inevitable at times. And live with the consequences."

Groaning, Solas sat up.

The grateful smiles they both turned on him then made all the aches and pains he felt well worth it. His head pounded. Wincing, he turned to the Warden, who still slept. "Has anyone checked on Blackwall?"

"He muttered something about feeling like hammered bronto shit, then fell asleep again," said Tir'alas.

"He was hurt far worse than the Seeker. I will not be surprised if he will not wake for another day." Using a fingernail, Solas ran it along the bottom of the Warden's bare foot. The way the toes twitched pleased him. "It seems he has finally broken his losing streak. Only great luck could have kept that spinal injury from stealing his ability to walk."

The Inquisitor stirred. "Well, I'll get the wagons sorted and we'll head for Skyhol-"

"No," interrupted Cassandra, with a stern shake of her head.

"Wha-?" Tir'alas started, only to be interrupted again.

"You have a mission to take care of, Inquisitor," said the Seeker. "You know I am not usually one to nay-say your intentions, to contradict your orders, but you cannot delay for Blackwall and me."

Tir'alas lunged to her feet, a reckless anger in her every twitch. She paced in what small space left to it. "How can you expect me to not get you both out of here? To not make _sure_ …." Her words trailed off in the face of Cassandra's frank stare.

"We will go back to Skyhold on the wagons, while you go on." The Seeker turned to Solas. "There is a dragon in the Hinterlands. It is set on razing Crossroads to the ground. Will you go with her?"

Spinning on her, Tir'alas said, strident, "Now, you just listen-!"

"Of course," said Solas, ignoring her outburst. "It will be nearly a week's journey. I shall have recovered my strength by then. Cole and I will take up where you left off."

The Inquisitor growled under her breath as she shot a glare at him. "Mutineers. Traitors, the lot of you." Then she stomped toward the tent-flap.

Cassandra halted her with her words, "Mutinies can only be committed against captains. Treason against those who command."

Tir'alas snorted, then left.

A smile broke over the Seeker's face, wide and devious. Solas grinned, too. He said, "Well done."

"I merely reminded her that the Inquisition is hers," said the satisfied Cassandra. "This failure rattled her resolve."

"But you did it with uncommon grace." Solas laughed. "I applaud you."

"Well, I thank _you._ If you had not showed up, both Blackwall and I would be dead. This I know in my bones." The Seeker reached over, extending a hand. "We did not have the most cordial of beginnings, you and I. Did we?"

"I do seem to recall a lot of loud and threatening words," said he, closing the gap to clasp her hand in his. "I do not hold it against you, if that concerns you."

"It is in my nature to be unforgiving and quick to anger. I am glad that others are not afflicted with the same faults." Cassandra gave him one more squeeze then let his hand drop. "Now. Go help her. I have come to think of her as a true sister, which, if you knew me, is no small thing. I would have her well guarded so she can spite me with frustrations later."

Solas stood with a chuckle. "I'm sure she will."

"It is sad. I always wanted to fight a dragon. Oh well." She shooed him away then and closed her eyes, exhausted from her ordeal.

The apostate left the tent and blinked in the bright sunshine of day. The perpetual grey clouds had broken for the time being. Cole waited just outside, silent and morose.

Solas gave him a questioning look. The spirit pointed toward the southwest. With a nod, Solas made his way to the coast, just in time to hear a voice shout—

"if I were Sten, I'd challenge you for leadership!" The Iron Bull had never sounded so furious, so _un_ -friendly. "I suppose you thought you were being clever? Now you might have cost us everything on a child's wish."

"I thought you said the Qunari were still intere—" said a quiet Tir'alas.

"Yeah? Interested, not committed. How to get their support in light of this fiasco, I don't even—" He cut himself off. Now that Solas could see them, he saw how the big man loomed over the tiny, repentant elf. The Qunari's thick fingers came up to tick off numbers under her nose, flashing the ones that were not whole any more. "A regiment of Inquisition soldiers decimated. Cass and Blackwall incapacitated. A whole fucking dreadnaught burnt to her keel and sunk-"

"The Chargers," she said, looking down at her bare feet.

At that, Bull's breath hitched and he straightened. His one eye spat poison at her. "If we had to lose them, I would have had their sacrifice be worth something. Anything."

"The Qun demanded it," said a new voice from Solas's left. He turned to see an unfamiliar elf stride out of the tangle. "And though your Inquisitor did her best to deny it, it seems our superiors have decided to back the Inquisition after all. " The elf turned to Tir'alas. "You're fortunate, Bas, that we see this as a miscalculation of our own. Sending one dreadnaught alone with no escort was courting disaster. The opposition is stronger than we originally thought. We will adjust accordingly."

Solas shuddered at the thought of an elf living under the Qun. What could be further from what elves were meant to be? What elf could make that choice?

When the new elf left, Solas stepped forward and made his presence known. Tir'alas looked everywhere but at him, while Bull just snorted and glared. "This changes nothing. Just because it turned out somewhat okay doesn't mean you get to be stupid and juvenile. They'll be watching. _I'll_ be watching."

"I am sorry, Bull," she said.

"Don't call me that. There isn't a point to it any more. 'Qunari' will work just fine." Bull swept past her toward the encampment on the hill. "You know what. Do whatever you want. I care about it as much as I care for your shit apology. Let's just … get to that dragon. I need to kill something."

Tir'alas stared out over the sea, lost and yearning. For a second, Solas thought perhaps she meant to run out into the waves. A single tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it off with an angry swipe. Then she seemed to realize Solas still stood in her shadow. With a guilty start, she looked at him.

He touched her shoulder and said, "Tell me what happened."

"Why, so you can yell at me, too?"

"Because it will help to talk about it," he said, with a kind smile.

"When has talking about it ever helped?" she demanded, low and rough.

Solas chuckled and turned her to face him fully. "Always so difficult."

The reminder of their once mutual antagonism made her smile, too. A small lifting of the corners of her mouth. With a heaving sigh, she turned back to the beach her shoulder nearly at his chest. Her hand came up to illustrate. "There were camps of venatori all along the hillocks. I sent the Chargers to hold that hill there."

She pointed and he noted said beachhead, saw the ground there soaked red where it wasn't blasted black. The rent, burnt and twisted bodies of enemy soldiers baked in the sun, left for seaside scavengers.

Tir'alas continued, "We cleared out the venatori inland and headed back this way. The dreadnaught appeared out of the fog, but the beach lay unprotected. Venatori had taken out our ground troops at the waterline. They marched on that hill. If we'd forfeited this position altogether to go to their aid, then enemy mages and ships would have sunk the dreadnaught. If we stayed, then the Chargers would be lost. There were just too many of the bastards."

She took a deep breath. "So I sent Cass and Blackwall to that hill, while Bull and I and Gatt kept pounding into the ranks on the beach before us. The dreadnaught sent ball after ball of gaatlok into the ships harrying it. But eventually, we had to retreat and the venatori on the sand started bombarding the Qunari ship with fireballs and lightning. That's when I saw it. A huge flaming ball of gaatlok flew through the air over the beach and landed right on that hill. Cass and Blackwall were just on the edge of it."

Pausing, she then finished, "Nothing in the center survived."

He took in the still flaming wreckage on the water and finished for her, "Then the dreadnaught exploded."

"The irony is if not for that misfire, they'd have cleared that hill in minutes and been able to come join us to help save the damn ship." She gave a harsh and bitter laugh.

The scene played out before his imagination as he looked out over the war-torn sands. He sighed. "The past cannot be undone. We can only move forward with the knowledge failure has taught us."

"Easy for you to say. You don't have a four-hundred pound Qunari pissed off at you." She leaned on him and he looped an arm around her waist, just the easy comfort of companionship.

"Not _four_ surely? Maybe three and a half. At most," he teased.

The Inquisitor gestured that they should start walking back to camp and, obliging, he turned, keeping his arm curled around her. She said, "Oh, well, _just_ three and a half? That changes everything. Can't imagine what I found so daunting."

She tucked pain away like a virtuoso. He watched it get shut behind lock and key deep in those silver mirrors. She sighed again and said, "Thank you, Solas. That actually did help."

"I am at your service, Tir'alas," he replied.

Her lip curled in intrigue and some other thing he couldn't name. "Perhaps one day I'll return the favor."

The hot flush up the back of his neck shook him to the core. He could only clear his throat and return, "Perhaps."

Now _she_ pinked and how that brought an amused rumble from his throat.

* * *

 **A/N: UPDAAATE! For any french speakers out there, sorry if my google translate french isn't up to muster. I try to run it through a couple times both directions to see if it still translates right. Hopefully, that isn't just my OCD. lol. Anyway, another chapter down in 'ink,' and a divergence from canon. Chargers lost, dreadnaught lost, Bull still under the Qun. Playing with this later will be fun. :)**

 **Please leave a comment or review should you feel the urge. Til next time!**


	28. Chapter 28

(Warning: Slight NSFW near the end.)

With a howl, Bull leapt atop the high dragon, axe biting deep over and over again. Tir'alas and Cole scrambled around her clawed feet, fleeing the dragonlings the dragoness had summoned in her plight.

The Inquisitor dropped barriers on herself and the spirit. Solas did the same for Bull just as the dragon swung around and flung the Qunari off. Leaping across the battlefield, the great flying lizard drew in a deep, deep breath.

Solas dove to the side just as a fireball hit the ground where he'd just been standing. It flamed, promising death to those unwise enough to stand in it. Bull charged with abandon, mad bloodlust on his face. Tir'alas and Cole fast on his heels.

The high dragon beat her wings, creating a vortex that pulled Solas toward her. The skin on his feet tore as he tried to resist the wind. He turned and immolated the pursuing dragonlings. Charred to cinders, they fell in his wake. Ignoring the pain of his many wounds, Solas ran to get back in range so his spells could be effective against the brood's mother.

Blood rained onto the ground from the dragon's torn and cut hide. She staggered ... and fell. Bull screamed fury and continued to chop into the dragon's side. Red fluid drenched him from head to toe as the massive Qunari threw aside his battle axe and reached with his hands into the enormous corpse's flesh, disappearing almost up to his waist.

Ripping, tearing, he pulled out a huge muscle made of tubes. He grunted a few words in qunlat and opened his mouth wide, tearing into the beast's heart with his teeth. Noisy chewing and slurping sounds fill the air.

Solas and the Inquisitor exchanged looks of fascination and aversion. The sulfuric stink of the blood saturated his every pore.

Bull jerked his head up and looked around at them with flinty appraisal. He held out the heart. "What? Want some?"

Tir'alas actually turned a little green. "No."

The Qunari dropped what remained of the heart and wiped his hands on a chest equally covered in viscera. He stalked by them to where the mounts lay tethered at the opening of the Blood Cliffs. Solas could feel a difference in the man, something edgy and feral. Hungry. Bull said over his shoulder, "I feel a bit better now. Can we go?"

Tir'alas shook her head. "We should honor her. Honor every part."

"She stopped being glorious as soon as she died. But do what you want. I'm heading back for Skyhold. I have reports to fill and agents to talk to." Bull mounted his nervous draft-horse and spun about, kicking the stud into a trot. The animal's eyes rolled in terror at the blood-soaked burden on his back.

Sighing, the Inquisitor turned back to the dead dragon. "It will take hours to dress this carcass."

"He took rage, but left strength." Cole wandered over to them, a spray of wildflowers in his hand. "Bone, blood, scale."

"We can spend the night here. No other beast will come within miles of a recently slain high dragon," said Solas. "There is water and we can lay our bedrolls under that overhang."

She looked to see where he indicated, and nodded. "Well, we might as well get started."

It took nearly four hours to take apart the dragon. The Inquisitor worked at scraping fat and flesh from the undersides of the skin, while Solas and Cole set about collecting bone and anything else that could be of use. Many vials of blood lay in a small heap near their packs.

At the end, they buried the meat and offal near the dragon's clutch-basin. Solas said a swift prayer over the burial site, Elvhen rolling out from between his lips, " _Winds take you where there is only endless sky, sister."_

Tir'alas and Cole smiled at his side, their bloody hands linked. The Inquisitor sighed and said, "Too bad the meat's not edible. Well … _most_ wouldn't think it edible."

"No one should eat dragons," said a sad Cole. "Not ever."

"Tell that to Bull, or Qunari, or whatever he wants to be called now," said she, with a wry twist of her mouth.

"Keep calling him Bull. It may yet remind him why he set himself apart," Solas commented.

Tir'alas hummed, then said, "We should wash before seeing to the horses. They are anxious enough as it is."

Cole shimmered, then solidified. Not a speck of dirt or blood remained on his person. "I'll go. They like me."

"That's a useful trick, Cole. Can you teach it to me?" Tir'alas said.

"Yes, but then you wouldn't be you any more. You'd be me. Then who would I be?" The spirit wandered off in his slow, ambling way, stopping here or there to look at things on the ground.

The Inquisitor shook her head, looking after him. Then she rolled her shoulders and squinted at the darkening sky. "Well, I still want to wash. I'm not getting blood in my bedroll." She turned back to Solas. "Coming with?"

"I will wait til you're finished," said he, trying not to feel the sudden prickle of excitement at the prospect.

She tilted her head and frowned, confused. "It's just a bath, Solas. It is no big thing. I've bathed with the whole clan before. Come on."

Pulled into her wake, his feet kept moving him, one step at a time. His heart started to pound, so loud she must hear it.

They arrived at a rocky, tiered set of small pools at the back of the Blood Cliffs. Doubtless where the high dragon drank her daily fill of water. Tir'alas pulled random plants from the foliage they passed, and dug near the pools, pulling up pale bulbs with a cry of discovery. "Ah ha!"

At his questioning look, she showed him and said, "Soaproot. Just the thing for getting blood out of cloth. Works on skin, as well."

She started stripping at water's edge. Solas spun about to preserve her dignity. And his. After a moment, he heard a splash. She called, with lilting humor, "You can turn around now. It's safe."

 _Safe? Nothing about this is safe._ Cautious, he turned as saw her fully immersed with just head, shoulders and arms above the water. Relieved but still nervous, he shifted from foot to foot.

Tir'alas watched him closely, then asked, "Where did you grow up, Solas? Not among the Dalish, I know. But was it a human village? Is that why nudity appalls you?"

Nudity did not appall him. Only _her_ nudity ap-... ' _Appall' is not the right word._ He crossed his arms and bit his lip. "You won't have heard of it. A small hamlet far to the north. Among elves, mostly."

"Look, you can stand there all night or you can get in. See," she said, gesturing at the other small pools. "We don't even have to be in the same one. If you take that one and hand me your clothes, I'll scrub the guts out. That way, bits of dragon won't come floating over the break and pelt me."

Stiffly, he went to the pool she indicated. The next up on the tier, separated from hers but barely by a shallow rock wall. He shot a look at her as he started unbuckling and shedding layers.

Smiling and shaking her head, Tir'alas covered her eyes with both hands. "I won't peek. Much."

Snorting, he pulled off tunic and trews and slid into the frigid waters of the pool. His pendant floated on the water's surface. Leaning his head back, he shivered as the cold currents flowed over tight and tense muscle and newly healed skin.

Her hand bumped into his shoulder. Startled, he turned and saw the bulb in her palm. She said, "Crush it until it suds. Clothes."

Reaching over, he handed her his stained clothing. Everything but the mail and the pelt, for they would just brush clean with oil.

Vigorous splashing told him that she had started scrubbing. The sharp smell of the soaproot started to win out over the tang of blood.

Eager to be rid of it himself, he set about scrubbing his skin free of the clingy red-brown particles. He had to admit the soaproot worked far better than the sand he usually used.

"I'm about to scandalize you again," she warned as she stood in the pool.

Solas didn't turn his face quick enough to not catch a glimpse of breast and rounded, taut buttock. Sinking deeper into the water, he let it cool his flaming cheeks. Not looking up, he heard her wring the water from the clothes, then walk over to where he thought he'd remembered bushes grew. A rustling and creaking further told him that she must be throwing their clothes across the branches to dry them.

With a grumble, she splashed back into the pool. More scrubbing sounds trickled out into the night. She said, "Blast this hair. Blood just gets all over it, down to the root. Creators! How did it get crusted into my ear? Ugh, I'll be scrubbing til dawn at this rate."

He chuckled as he sat more upright, feeling safer now she was back underwater. "You could always cut it shorter like you used to."

She paused, then said, "I know it seems a small thing, but I've never had hair longer than the length of my thumb. I thought I might … grow it out a bit."

Solas turned a little to look at her, with her eyes held shut against the pink-tinged suds streaming down from her busy hands. "As you will."

A thought occurred to him and he trailed his fingers into the pool on her side. Summoning a spark of fire magic, he drew a weak rune in the sandy bottom. In seconds, the water began to steam.

Tir'alas froze, then slunk down into the hot pool to rinse her hair. "Oh, that's _divine_!"

He tried to ignore what her throaty exclamation did to his nether regions. Then he did the same to his pool. The warmth soaked into his sore muscles like a trained masseuse, making everything go lax at once. He gave a small moan, smiling.

Her giggle caught him by surprise. He twisted to see her grinning. "What?"

"Ha, forgive me. You've got a … a splotch on the back of your head. A big one." Her eyes laughed at him.

Feigning a disgruntled frown, Solas gathered what soaproot remained and swiped at his scalp. "Did I get it?"

"Not quite. A little to the left …. Wow, it's really ground in there."

Knowing he shouldn't, but powerless before the temptation, he said, "Would you?"

The touch of her hands on him sent a rapturous tingle throughout the whole of his body. Her soapy fingertips caressed and pulled at his scalp in a way that made his eyes cross. He bit his lip to keep from moaning aloud as her deft manipulations melted him into a puddle.

It seemed to go on forever, but then her hands wandered down the back of his neck, drawing little circles. He squirmed a little in delicious titillation, aching deep in his belly and loins. He didn't need to look to see the evidence of his arousal, hidden below the water's obfuscating plane. Its throbbing pulsed with each pass of her skilled hands.

Then those hands seemed to flutter like startled birds, alighting on his shoulders with the barest pressure imaginable. Solas reached up and captured one of those pale birds, bringing it to his mouth to brush his lips over her heated skin. He said, "Thank you. For cleaning my clothes and for taking care of the most terrible splotch."

Her breathy whisper carried to his ears, "You're welcome, Solas."

The way she said his name made his back arch, just the tiniest little jerk before he got himself back under control. Then she pulled away from him, and he missed her warmth.

She said, soft, "I'm clean. I will take our clothing back to the camp. Shall I leave you your tunic?"

"Yes, please," he returned, just as soft. He didn't turn to look as she stepped out of the pool, though his imagination tortured him with scenes and scenarios anyway. Her receding footsteps echoed in his ears.

When he was sure she'd gone, he let out a shaky breath, glaring at his erect cock. With palm, he pressed, but it only made the damn unrepentant thing harder, more needy. Sighing, he took himself in hand, pumping slow and steady. His hips rolled under the water as he chased release. Her eyes and hands and skin filled his thoughts. Her voice crying out as he imagined plunging. Sliding. Thrusting.

Swift completion overtook and drowned him, drawing a soft whine from his closed throat. His essences wept from the tip of his manhood into the pool. Swirling, it dispersed.

Relaxing against the pool's edge, Solas heaved a great sigh and covered his face with one hand. Chagrin tickled him for finding his release so quick. It had dimmed the fire, but not put it out. He had an inkling that it would never go out.

That thought pained him. For the inevitable future loomed ahead and, with it, many trials he knew would most likely kill her regard and any affection she had for him. If she felt affection for him. It could be simple lust for her. The Dalish, he knew, often had many dalliances before settling for one to pairbond with life.

As the thought of any who might have touched her before him sparked a silly and irrational and unwarranted petulance in him, so the thought of anyone who might come after did tear into his heart like a beast at supper. Like Bull had done with the dragon.

If Solas _ever_ dared touch her, that is.

* * *

 **A/N: Whew, some bathtime naughty stuff. What's a guy gotta do to get some relief round hurr? Anyway, I love update day. That I get to share this stuff with all of you. Thanks for being awesome, everybody.**


	29. Chapter 29

"Should we leave the skull or take it?" she asked him in the morning. "The Dalish say the empty sockets of a high dragon's skull can steal your soul if you stare too long."

"You believe this?" he asked back, curious.

She scoffed. "No. Tis just superstition, like so many things the Dalish believe."

Solas looked at the skull in question. It did seem to leer at them, flensed of all flesh.

Cole drifted over and crouched before the skull. He passed his hand before the sockets. "She stares into wonders now. She doesn't have time for us." In ghostly fashion, Cole stood once more and wandered away, seeming to float.

The apostate smiled and said, "I'm sure the idea frightens the Dalish more than anything. That death comes even for the mightiest of mortals. Why keep around a reminder of that to chill the heart?"

"Hmm, well, I'm sure Dagna would love to get her hands on it. Perhaps she can do something interesting with the teeth." She turned on one heel and gathered the reins of her overburdened mount in one hand. "We'll leave the scales, bones and whatnot with the camp just outside the valley. They'll send it on to Skyhold eventually. The skull comes with us to Crossroads, proof to show that the dragon is no longer a danger."

"And then?" asked Solas, hand on the hart's shoulder.

"We go home, of course. We have a book to finish." The Inquisitor smiled a crooked smile. "Varric will be glad to know we finally destroyed that red lyrium cache, this time without an angry dragon buzzing around our heads spitting fireballs at us. I want to check on Cass and Blackwall. And, if I can, mend some bridges with Bull before the next crisis crops up. Do you think _he'd_ like to have the skull?"

Solas laughed. "I think once he sees it, he will want it. Regardless what anger may still sicken his heart over the loss of his Chargers."

"He's not supposed to have a 'his,' but they were. His and only his," Cole said, at their rear. "Forgiveness is not there."

Tir'alas shivered and said, "He doesn't have to forgive me, but I have to try anyway."

"We know," Cole said.

Solas pondered the ambiguity of Cole's statement while they journeyed back to the Inquisition camp. So many 'we's and so many things they could know.

The people of Crossroads greeted them with fanfare and sprays of flowers and mugs of warm drink, insisting they stay for revelry.

A few burnt out buildings and one flamed field gave evidence of the dragon's raids. But other than that, it seemed the sad, broken refugees from his first visit through this region had transformed over the winter into veterans of hardship. Dug in to repel any who would come to take the land and destroy it.

"Ser elf," called a soft voice at his knee. He looked down from the horse's back to see a white-haired human smiling at him, uncertain. "I don't know if you remember me, but you healed my wife, saved her, about a year ago after the templars and mages had attacked-"

"Of course. Brant, yes? And how is Malaya?" At the time, he'd wandered off, in order to put distance between he and the Herald he'd so disliked, saw the couple in need and acted. Simple as that.

The man flushed with pleasure that he remembered. "She is well. With our son of three months. I wanted … I wanted to thank you. I don't know if there's anything I could ever do to repay you, but you have my gratitude. I am in your eternal debt."

Stunned before the man's tear-filled pledge of obligation, Solas could only blink. He reached down and squeezed Brant's shoulder. "There is no debt. But I will take your thanks with warm and glad heart, and keep it close, if you'll grant me the indulgence to do so."

The farmer grinned. "Aye, ser. Done and done. If you've a mind, come see the little one. We're in that hut and will gladly share space since I doubt they'll let you leave without getting all of you crocked and potted. Our humble hearth and what small comforts we have are yours."

Solas followed the man's pointing forefinger and nodded. "We just may do that."

Brant waved once more and darted off, no doubt back to his wife and child.

Just then, another villager appeared out of the crowd. A laughing woman with flour dusting her elbows. In her hand, she bore a small wreath of spring lilies and hydrangea, vibrant purple contrasting with palest pink.

Seeing what she meant to do, Solas bent, obedient, so she could place it on his head. Sitting tall with a smile of thanks, he looked around and saw similar crowns adorning Tir'alas and Cole. The spirit pushed his down over the point of his hat, while the Inquisitor sat stiff with frozen grin on her face.

She said, out of the side of her mouth, "Do I look as silly as I feel?"

Solas reached and turned the flower crown to its most fetching angle. "You look beautiful."

The glazed look in her eyes receded as she turned to him and her smile turned genuine. "Sweet-talker."

"I think flower crowns suit you. Twice now you've ended up with one. Perhaps Dagna can craft one that repels arrows." Solas laughed as her gaze went flat and sour.

"And maybe one for you," she shot back. "For you look oh so _pretty_."

Ignoring the snide tone, he sat a little straighter and adjusted his. "Why, thank you. I _feel_ pretty."

She stared at him for a long moment before her disbelieving expression shifted to something else, something less easy to divine.

Cole spoke up, "Regal. Like the savage kings of the Chasind wear the laurel and bone."

Tir'alas speared the spirit with an embarrassed glare. Then she slid off her hart to avoid meeting Solas's amused eyes. The crowd swept her away in a whirling, dancing, shouting torrent.

Solas chuckled and dismounted. He said to Cole, "Do you think we should go save her?"

The spirit looked past him, staring into something only he could see. "She can't be saved."

Shuddering, Solas tried to dismiss those portentous words. The near-prescient spirit had difficulty unraveling the jumbled threads of the now. Anything he said could be taken dozens of ways.

Cole smiled. "She's dancing again, but there's no blood this time."

Making his way through the throng, he saw a large burly man swing the Inquisitor around in a peasant's quickstep to the beat of pounding feet and impromptu lute and fife performance. Then another man came from the crowd and swept her along, hands at her waist.

A flash of possessiveness taunted Solas, but he brushed it away. He had no claim to her. She spun and spun, and he couldn't help but notice how bright her eyes shone, how light her laughter as she wove herself through steps she seemed to only half remember. Unfamiliar, but still a joy to be part of.

Counting under his breath, Solas leapt out at the appropriate time and caught her up for himself, if only for this one turn. The surprise on her face made him laugh as he led her through figures common to all peasant dances, fast and deft.

The rush of delight that stole his breath compounded the soaring of his heart until his awareness narrowed to only her.

Just her.

Flushed and breathless.

Too soon, he broke away to let some other lucky man take her arm. The longing in the way she looked after him with outstretched hand yanked a piercing ache through his core. Yet still he danced away and watched her fly.

More couples drew close and danced until the whole of Crossroads joined in the gaiety.

Other women sought him out and he swung them about with rare, but polite abandon. Even Cole sat on a nearby stump, his hat dipping in time to the music.

A wide smile peeked out from under the brim.

* * *

Later, by the hearth in Brant's small, but cozy cottage, he lay with feet toward flame. Solas said, warm to the buzz of the alcohol in his veins, "Tell me a story of your childhood, lethallan."

She unwrapped her feet, tutting at the dusty mess coating her calloused heels. "Why do you want to hear such bitter things? This night has been good. Will you spoil it?"

With dampened rag, she washed her soles, drawing cloth between wiggling toes. The family slept on their one big bed, mother, father, child. They'd offered it to the Inquisitor and her companions, but seeing as Cole did not sleep and they had their own comfortable bedding, they'd refused the generosity.

Solas lay on his side to face her, hand propping up head. "No, but I would know you. Know the path that brought you here."

"Would you?" she mused, light and laughing. She stretched her legs out, flexing clean feet. "Oh, but I never thought dancing could make my feet so sore, my body so tired. Maybe I'm still weak from the lung fever?"

The apostate spun around on his bedroll and took one of her feet in hand. Rubbing the bottoms with firm strokes and circles, he smiled when she leaned her head back and moaned. Her pale throat flashed at him, begging him to sup. He barely refrained.

Her eyes shot back open and she drawled, "You think to ply me with massage? I won't give in to your limbic sorcery."

He chuckled and said, "I merely wish to relieve your sore feet. You did try your best to wear them down to the ankle."

"Hmmmmm," she hummed, as he continued. Then she said, eyes catching and reflecting firelight, "I have a proposal."

"Oh? A proposal? So soon? What _will_ the others say?" he teased, taking her other foot to task.

"Idiot," she said, smile showing she jested. "One story for one story. And none of that 'untrue' nonsense of Varric's. _Real_ stories."

A spike of fear jabbed him. Could he play so dangerous a game? What if she wanted to know about _his_ childhood, _his_ terrible secret? Forcing his fingers to keep kneading, he said, "What would you have from me?"

Her voice softened and she said, finger playing with lip, "When you talk of the Fade, such a light is in your eyes. You love it, that place of dream. I would-I would _understand_ it better, see it as you do. Will you tell me stories about what you've seen there? Please?"

Relief poured ice into his heated blood, and the bubbling panic deep within subsided. "In exchange for tales of you? Done."

Her cheeks dimpled prettily. She laid back down on her side and gestured that he should do the same. So he did, turning so once again hearth warmed heel instead of pate. He drew his blanket over himself and rolled so he and she lay face to face, close as conspiracy.

Tir'alas said, "I suppose I'll start, seeing as it was my bargain."

He replied, "Begin with what happened after the spirit, the demon returned to the Fade. Did the Clans accept you?"

She gave him a sharp look. "Have you been peeking into my dreams, Solas?"

Chagrined, he said, "You left an impression, a _memory_ in my cottage in Haven when you came to ask my advice. _It_ found _me_ in the Fade."

"Oh," said she, eyes blank and stunned for a moment. "Well, then. I guess it's as good a place to start as any—"

"The demon tried, but no clan would take me from her hand. She frightened them. _I …_ frightened them. But then I went back to that last with that black, crusty heart in my fist and they saw that I was just a child. A wrong, unnatural child, but not a demon." She sighed.

She continued, "'Acceptance' is not the word. 'Tolerance?' 'Forbearance?' Those are closer. I hung around the edges, eating scraps and stealing trifles that would not be missed. I had to be quick and clever to survive. I was bad luck. No one wanted anything to do with me."

Solas watched the ghosts of yesteryear march by in her eyes. He wet his lips to say, "Why did you stay? You could have learned to survive on your own. Could it have been so much worse than living among them as a pariah?"

She gave a shake of her head. "I am Dalish, whether they'll have me or not."

"Perhaps the Dalish did not deserve you."

"Such is choice. I wanted to be with them. It was _all_ I wanted, as a child. Only now, grown, do I see how twisted and ignorant they can be." Some darker emotion filled her countenance. "And I still deal with the consequences of that choice."

A long silence descended, stifling and full of awful, spectral intimations. Then Solas said, "What is the Rasdalelan?"

Her hand came out to cover his mouth as she gasped. Her eyes went huge with feigned horror, though her mouth quirked just the tiniest tick to one side. She whispered, "Don't say that word so loud, Solas!"

He smiled into her palm and persisted, "What or who is it though?"

She snuggled deeper into her bedroll and kept one grey eye on him as she said, "A story to scare children into behaving. A demon. A monster."

Solas hummed. " _Just_ a story?"

"Who can say? It is said you whisper your darkest wish on the wind and it is carried to the shadow killer's ear. Then your outrages are … avenged." She pouted. "But that is another story and you have not yet paid _your_ due."

He huffed a laugh and said, "That's only fair. Hm, let's see—

"I saw a savage human horde go marching toward the battlefront. They sang …." As he spoke, he watched the kindling of wonder spark in her face. If, beneath that, he saw worry and pensive thoughts, he did not comment.

Solas tucked it away to explore later.

One of her trademark 'stretch and yawns' interrupted him. He looked close and saw the steady rise and fall of her chest. Asleep.

He didn't know if he should be irked that she'd fallen asleep in the middle of his story, or charmed that his voice soothed her enough to do so. Solas pulled her blanket up around her and pushed her hair back over the closest ear.

Then, unable to stop himself, he leaned over and dropped a feather-light kiss on her cheek. He whispered, so soft it nearly didn't make it past teeth, tongue and lips, " _Ma vhenan."_

His heart gave a painful lurch.

Her eyelashes tickled the end of his nose and he pulled back to rub the sensation away before it made him sneeze.

He laid back and watched her until sleep claimed him.

* * *

 **A/N: So some fluff for you, just a little taste. And a tease of plotty plotness. So this, my OTP, is torture, I've found. I can't seem to get away from it. I read and draw, then go poke around the internet for other people's stories and drawings. I'm in too deep. So deep. How can this still have such a hold on me after more than a year? *sigh***

 **My only consolation is that I'm not alone. So, thank all of you. Let's suffer together in Solavellan Hell FOREVER. lol.**


	30. Chapter 30

With amusement, Solas watched the dwarf sidle up to them, playing the villainous conspirator. They met in one of the abandoned sections of Skyhold.

Varric said, low and rough, "You got the stuff?"

Tir'alas snorted. She handed him a thick leather-bound sheaf of loose paper, suede thongs tying it closed. She said, voice pitched soft, "This is the medicinals. Have them make as many copies as they can."

"Okay," said the dwarf. "Pretty standard. But what about the other one, the one that has you worried."

"Cautious and worried are not the same thing, Master Tethras," said Solas, handing him the other, slimmer volume.

"One copy." The Inquisitor held up her hand to forestall the protest about to come out of Varric's mouth. " _Only_ one copy, Varric. Then I want the original destroyed."

The dwarf frowned in confusion. "You know it's not really cost-effective to print just one of anything."

"I don't care. I want it in my hand as soon as it's done."

"If this is so dangerous, then why print it at all?" asked Varric.

Tir'alas sighed. "Because you can't have one without the other. Because they are the same book, inverted. Bind it in something dark but simple, and burn the sigil I left on the first page into the cover. It's important, Varric."

The dwarf's eyebrows raised at that and he opened the flap to look at said sigil. Its Elvhen lines indecipherable to those who did not know the language. "What does it say?"

Solas said, "Din'an."

"And that means?"

Tir'alas loomed over the rogue. "I would tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

The dwarf froze, then saw the playful glimmer in her eyes. "Oooo, scary," said he, tucking the manuscripts into a bag. "I'll take it to Kirkwall along with one of my periodicals, so Nightingale won't think to worry her pretty little head about it. Though why we're keeping secrets from our own Spymaster now, I'm sure I haven't a clue. It's above my paygrade."

He slung the satchel over one broad shoulder and turned to go.

"Whatever they want for payment, I have it," said Tir'alas to the dwarf's back.

"Silly Sticks. You don't _pay_ publishers. Publishers pay _you_." Varric laughed, a deep throaty chuckle. "I'll make the one book and the conditions involved a part of the royalties. Which, when they start rolling in, I'll thank you to think of me."

"Five percent!" called she, after the dwarf.

"Fifteen. And that's friend prices." He waved as the door swung closed behind him.

And then they were alone.

A fact that pressed sorely upon Solas's awareness as the seconds ticked by.

Tir'alas leaned against one crumbling wall and looked at him through lowered eyelashes. "Well, now we've done it."

"So we have," said Solas, with an indolent roll of one shoulder. "Unleashed chaos into the world. Upended all of accepted alchemical theory. What _will_ the academia in Val Royeaux think?"

"If they even read it." She snorted. "They probably won't even get past the race of the author to read her name."

As though it didn't belong to her. "If they are not fools, they'll see its merits. But I do not think that is the part that truly bothers you. I think it has to do with the name. _Your_ name."

"Is it mine?"

He leaned on the wall with one shoulder and hooked ankle over ankle. "It could be. Just because it was given instead of taken, does it make it any less yours? Not many are fortunate enough to be called something so pleasant."

"Hm, well. I do like it, especially when _you_ say it." She moved a little closer, showing him just the corner of her smile.

He lifted a brow and leaned toward her, just a fraction. "Really?"

She lifted her gaze to meet his, pupils dilating. Her rosy lips parted to puff soft air at his jawline. "Really."

The moment seemed to hover suspended on the knife's edge. He wondered which way it would fall and whether it would cut when it did. His pulse thundered in his ears as he stared at her lips. A soft popping sound touched the air as his own lips parted.

Tir'alas whispered, "Is it time for another dance?"

He trembled at the vibration of her voice against his sensitive skin. Swallowing, he bent until his mouth lay just over hers. "Would you like that?"

Her cheek rounded in his view. "Depends. Last time, it didn't last all that long."

The elfroot on her breath, sweet and light, swam into his mouth, inviting him to breathe her air, share her very vitality. He said, "Trust that when we _do_ dance, there will be nothing _short_ about it."

"' _When_?'" she echoed. So close now that her flexing lips actually brushed his.

The contact shocked him. He froze. Then, Solas blinked and pulled away with a breathy and dazed, " _If_ , I mean ... If."

He looked everywhere but at her, trying to regain his wits and cool his head. Out of the corner of his eye, she, too, seemed stunned, though her eyes kept trying to capture his. He moved back to put some distance between them, though he still did not trust his tongue to talk.

She huffed a dry noise that tried to sound like laughter. "This is the part where you tell me it's not me, it's you."

A glance at her face showed him the heavy hurt that roiled just below the bitter humor.

He said, "It _is_ me."

She spun away from him, spiky with anger. Words born of that rage tumbled out of her mouth, fast and stinging as they hit the mark, "You don't want me, just say so. I'm not going to chase you down like game, nor beg. And don't think I told you those stories just so you'd take pity on me, the poor little lonely outcast. Teaching me magic and reading, _hahren_." She spat the word like an epithet. " _Fixing_ me. My past is just that; the past. I may not know much compared to you, but I know that I do not want or need a-a mercy-fuck, or whatever the hell this is."

"Tir'alas …." But she'd gone. Out the door and sliding down the stone rubble. He whispered over the wrenching pain in his chest, "Ar lath ma."

 _I love you._

Too little, too late.

The story of his life.

And, coward that he was, he didn't go after her.

'If.' He'd said, realizing now she'd taken it to mean his desire was in question. As though the wanting of her could ever be in doubt. He'd only meant to put the choice in her hands, to not press an assumption.

Didn't he?

Palms rose to press heels against stinging eyes.

 _When will the mistakes stop?_

* * *

"I'm going with you," Solas said, adamant, setting his pack on the ground.

Just as firm, she said, "No, you are not."

Bull, Sera and Cassandra exchanged looks where they sat behind her on their mounts.

"Lethallan-"

"Don't." She held up her slim hand. "I don't need a crutch. Or someone to cover my bumbling. It is time to sink or swim. Do I lead this Inquisition? Or do I not?"

"Tir'alas, please," he very nearly begged, voice pitched low. His eyes darted to their companions, who looked just as uncomfortable as he felt. Shame crawled up his neck. "I thought we could talk."

"Is _that_ what you thought?" she said, cold and distant as the mountain peaks around them.

Solas's skin grew hotter still as Sera tittered.

The Inquisitor seemed to soften then, a touch of sympathy in her wintry, grey eyes. "I'll see you when I return in three months from Emprise du Lion."

Then her mouth snapped shut on what she might have said then and she turned the red hart toward the gate and shouted, "Hyah!"

Bugling, the beast lunged forward, pounding down the causeway. Her _chosen_ close at heel.

Solas watched until they became specks and disappeared around the bend of the trade road. Numb and guilt-ridden, he still stared.

A hand went around his shoulders. Sighing, Dorian said, "Come on, old boy."

He let himself be turned and led inside. So detached from anything but his own torturous thoughts, Solas barely even noticed when someone pressed him into his chair.

"Really, this unrequited nonsense is for the young and callow." Dorian set a cup before Solas and poured a dark, steaming beverage into it.

"No, thank you. I detest tea," Solas's mouth said, as the rest of him looked into the middle distance.

"It's not tea. It's kaffa, all the way from Seheron." The mage sat opposite of Solas and sipped at his own cup of the heady-smelling brew. "Try it."

Solas's hand reached out to pick up the cup and bring it to his lips. He wrinkled his nose the second the brew hit his tongue. Making a face, he said, "I did not think anything existed that was worse than tea. Until now."

Dorian laughed. "It is an acquired taste. I remember the first time I drank it in this small cafe in Minrathous. I shouted, 'Kaffas!' So they brought me more. Ha! Needless to say after several more cups and cursing, it sort of grew on me. Here."

He poured milk and dropped sugar into Solas's cup, stirring it with a spoon.

Solas tasted again and found the acerbity had nearly flown, leaving the drink sweet, creamy and steeped in earthy flavors. "Better, but still not good."

"Ah, but now you're thinking about the kaffa, and not the other thing." Dorian ticked the point in the air with one gloved finger. He hummed in satisfaction.

The apostate felt the skin around his eyes crinkle as that reminded him. Gut churning, he shook his head and looked away. Another sip of the bitter beverage did little to wash the ashes out of his mouth.

"You're lucky Vivienne is still in Val Royeaux. She would have given anything to see that." Dorian fiddled with the edge of his cup just in Solas's periphery. "I swear the woman lives on the tears of the miserable."

"How better to distract her from her own miseries?" asked Solas. Then he turned a suspicious look on the Tevinter. "So then, what is this? Pity? Or are you to bask in my momentary humiliation, too?"

Dorian gave him a sad smile. "Empathy."

The elf tilted his head and searched the man's tawny face, but didn't find anything but sincerity there. Then he snorted and said, "This is where you give me advice and some life-altering lesson, is it?"

"Oh, heavens no." Dorian flapped his hands, dismissing the whole idea. "Oh, there's some that apply. Like, 'weather the storm' and 'batten down the hatches' or 'every cloud has a silver blah, blah, blah.' All terribly trite and don't really help anything. The bleeding stops when the bleeding stops. Nothing I say can change that."

Solas gave a chuff, air exiting in a whoosh. An almost comfortable silence descended between the two men, punctuated by the occasional sip. Solas said, slow, "Young I may not be, but _callow_ …. That is less certain."

"Seeing as you are a man of learning, sleeping in old ruins and hardly spending time around other people, I can't say I'm all that surprised you might be, ahem, inexperienced. Especially where young, hot-tempered women are concerned," Dorian said, with engaging smile.

"There have been others." Solas frowned at the presumptuous mage. "I am no monk to have taken vows."

"Really? I'd wondered," teased Dorian. Then he said, "Is it because she is so much younger than you?"

"No," said he, in reflex. Then he paused. "Yes. But not really. It is because she is … she is … _hasty_. Rash and incautious."

"And that scares you, does it?" Dorian smiled. "Ah, to be young and full of fire and the need to have everything now, now, _now_!"

Even Solas had to admit the truth there. She did frighten him. Everything about getting involved with her frightened him. Yet his heart had gone and done the unthinkable anyway. Sometimes, he wished he could just yank that bit of muscle out and crush it. Then it couldn't tempt him so.

"There's something to be said for rash and incautious, though," Dorian mused. "Nothing makes you feel more alive than the threat of disaster. Nothing more satisfying than treading where danger lies around every corner. Knowing death may lurk close reminds us to savor the rush and heat of blood pounding through our veins. Life is so short anyhow."

' _Life is so short anyhow.'_

The phrase echoed and wound around Solas's heart, giving it an agonizing squeeze. Life is short.

Life is short … for _her_.

His throat closed. Eyes prickled. It took all of his will to keep his mouth from twisting into a feral grimace. He couldn't fathom how that had escaped him until this moment.

She would fade and die, no matter what may or may not happen between them.

And he'd have to live on.

Could he bear loving her for so little time? Has he not already damned himself with plans that could mean making that span even shorter?

Grief struck him a low blow right to the gut and he pressed thumb and forefinger into his eyes until sparks shot across his vision. The physical pain helped a little.

"Oh, now I've gone and said something, haven't I?" said a concerned Dorian.

Solas waved it off. "Forgive me. It is nothing. A headache." The lie tasted of rot and bile. A distressing wetness touched his fingers. No.

With supreme restraint, the elf looked at Dorian and smiled. The mage, worry creasing his brow, looked back, then he shrugged. "I get those, too. Migraines. Crop up from out of nowhere sometimes. Here."

Dorian reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a small package made of wax paper. "Tir'alas made these for me. She had the nerve to say, 'Chew on this. It will shut you up. I'm sick of hearing you whine.' She can be _so_ charming."

The mage dropped a sticky, brownish ball in Solas's hand. The apostate gave it an experimental lick. Sweetness blossomed on his tongue and without really thinking about it, he popped the whole thing into his mouth and chewed. Thick as toffee and sugary as treacle, with a slight, sour tingle of something medicinal. It took an eternity to work it into something swallowable.

Tongue working the lingering treat out of teeth, he said, "What is it?"

"I've no clue. Willowbark something or other. I love them. I confess, sometimes I eat them like candy. She said not to, but sometimes you have to live dangerously," said Dorian with a waggle of the brows and a dark chuckle.

Memory un-spooled page fifty-four before his eyes. Willowbark and its uses, decoctions and infusions. But mostly in teas and broths.

Solas had no idea it could be made into confections. He held out his hand and, obliging, Dorian set another in his palm. The elf rolled it around in his palm, pondering why she hadn't included it in the book.

Then, he realized. _It doesn't look like medicine. It doesn't even really taste like medicine. It looks like candy._

And who loves candy?

Children.

He recalled her frustration and disgust with imprecise measurements, the combing for every tiny error or easy to misunderstand instruction. Over and over again, editing. To make sure no one could mistake any part of it for anything other than what she meant it to say. Months before she was finally satisfied.

That brought the other book to mind, for she'd taken just as much care there. Poisons and perils from front to back. Means to murder kindly or with great … _unkindness_. Deliberate, deadly intent.

She didn't shy from dealing death. She balked at dealing _accidental_ death. To the innocent, most of all.

Humbled by the revelation, Solas started when the back of his hand hit the desk. His fist closed, a fast reflex that kept the sweet ball of medicine from rolling out and falling onto the floor.

Solas cleared his throat and said, "I believe I feel the need to rest. Dorian, would you be so kind?"

"Of course," said he, standing and walking toward the stairs to the upper floors. "Perhaps we can do this again sometime. Kaffa and talk, sort of thing."

"Perhaps. Though I haven't as yet acquired the taste for it."

"Then I'll have to keep trying, won't I?" Dorian gave a flippant wave, then swung out of sight.

Sighing, Solas stood and made his way over to his couch. He lay back and closed his eyes. The medicine found its way into his mouth and he chewed on the sweet as he breathed deep in meditation.

Yet, his thoughts ventured in dangerous directions again.

To her. To worthy Tir'alas.

Why now? Why couldn't she have entered his life long ago, before the Quickening? Why did the world have to suffer the lack of her all this time, only to have her gone again in so brief a span?

A tear slipped free and rolled down his cheek to the pillow under his head.

He grieved.

For her, for him, for all of it.

But still that treacherous hope whispered to him. _What better reason to seek out the means to change destiny?_

* * *

 ** _A/N: Oooooooh, rejected. Take that, devil egg. lol, deviled egg. No one wants a pity-fuck, Solas. Bad, bad egg. Anyway, I hope you are all still enjoying this fic. It's eaten my life. This and the other one that was supposed to just be fluffy but is evolving in the direction of the dreaded Serious-town. Gimme some feedback, people. If you want. Love you guys!_**


	31. Chapter 31

_The shifting nothing around him leered and whispered welcome and insult in equal measure._

 _This part of the Fade, the darkest reflection of a mad idea, pressed upon him, trying to unravel his essence. Had he been at his full strength, he would command them to cease._

 _As it stood, he endured their bothersome probing with calm acceptance. After all, he'd chosen to come to this place he swore never to tread again._

 _A presence waited in the dark, hungry and gloating. "I knew we'd not seen the last of you, betrayer."_

" _As I had also hoped to never be in the company of such malevolence again," said he, mild._

 _The being exuded pleasure at the 'compliment' he bestowed upon it. "So, why do you come, wolf? To gaze upon what you have wrought? Does it bring you joy? Ecstasy? Carnal satiation?"_

" _Do not mistake me for yourself," he said. "I remember well how you reveled in rape and torture. How you committed it on a massive scale."_

" _You know what I remember?" said the presence. "I remember how you stood by and let me do it. How you let us all do it."_

 _Shame grew, a poisonous bubble in his innards. Solas said, "It was not my place to stop you."_

" _Until it was. But how many women and men wailed into the night before you acted? How many prayed to their gods to intervene and were given nothing? No solace. No succor. Their pain and disillusionment spiced their meat with a fine, robust flavor." The sound of tongues dragging over teeth and lips in a loud smacking reached Solas's ear._

 _Nausea roiled in his guts, but Solas pressed on. "No meat has touched your lips for millennia, defiled thing of the past."_

" _If I am of the past, then so are you. Is that why you have come? Are you lonely, Fen'harel? Have you come to join us at last? There is a place for you here, though I wouldn't expect a warm welcome." Sinister delight filled the thing's tone._

" _No. Rather, I had a bargain in mind."_

" _Oh, no. We've had enough of_ your _bargains."_

" _I think you'll find this one ... intriguing." Fen'harel let his lips curl into a devious smirk. "I seek the means to reMake the world that was."_

 _The nothing swirled faster._

 _He willed himself forward, until he could just see into the prison and the howling faces inside. "Think of it. The worship. The weak. The world. With you upon it."_

" _The Evanuris?"_

" _Them, too." He shrugged. "What would that world be without the War?"_

" _How do we know this isn't a trick, betrayer?" hissed the cacophony in the Abyss._

Oh, it is, you simple devils. But time and terror have maddened you to desperation. _But his mouth said, "Is it so hard to believe that I, too, long for a return to those charnel days? The smoke and blood? The fire and rage? Recall the times we ran together."_

" _What would you have of us to bring this about?"_

" _I have not the means to unMake that which I wrought."_

 _They laughed at him. "_ You _would be willing to devour one of us? To take our art into you and make us one?"_

" _If need be."_

 _A long, tense moment elapsed. "We will have to think on it. But, you must give us something now."_

 _A cold trickle of fear ran up his spine. "What?"_

" _A gesture of, hm, good faith," the being intoned. Beyond the barrier, they writhed and coiled, an insensate mass. "Say my name."_

 _Taken aback, he said in reflex, "No."_

" _Then we cannot think your bargain genuine." The thing's attention seemed to turn from him. "Go back from whence you came, wolf."_

 _Biting his lip, Solas whispered, "Anaris."_

 _With triumphant laugh, one dark shape separated from the rest, gaining form and solidity. Cold and beautiful, Anaris stared at Solas with evil satisfaction. He leaned his forehead on the enclosure's foggy wall and sighed. "I_ am _."_

 _Shivering, Solas regretted saying the damn thing's name. Names made things real, gave them structure and function. In this place of formless potential, names carried potency._

 _The Forgotten should remain Forgotten._

 _Anaris twiddled long fingers at him. "Now run along, Fen'harel. Give us time to … confer."_

 _Solas ran. He ran until nothing dark lay behind him. Away from the dreams of dead gods._

* * *

A strange humming reached his ear as his senses realigned to the waking world. His eyes cracked open to see the boychild, Moineau, sitting at his desk with huge book propped on his lap. The boy squinted at the words with a serious expression on his face. He looked all too adult.

But he did not hum.

Puzzled, Solas sat up and turned his head toward the sound. Alouette crouched near the wall, little fingers tracing over the lines of the mural. Over and over again, digits along wall.

"You were asleep for a long time. Days. Auntie Leliana was worried," said Moineau, turning the page.

The apostate smiled. "I walked the Fade for a time. It is not uncommon for such a thing to take weeks."

"Hmm, won't you get possessed?" the boy asked. "Everyone says the demons in the Fade wait til you're weak, then they possess you."

"Spirits do abound in the Fade. They live there, just as you and I live here on the material plane. Most are no more hazardous than the people you know here."

"Most of the people here have swords," said the boy, with crinkled brow.

Solas shook his head and chuckled. "Point taken."

He stood and stretched, then wandered over to see what tome fascinated the boy. Looking over Moineau's shoulder, he jerked his head in surprise. " _A Study of the Fifth Blight, Volume One by Sister Petrice, Chantry._ I'm surprised you would be interested in something so …."

"So, what?" asked the boy, tone sharp as needles. "Big? Full of long words and such? I'm not stupid. Reading's not hard."

Solas smiled at Moineau's prickly tone, and said, "No. I was going to say 'dull.' 'Dry.' 'Boring.'"

The boy's sour mien cracked into a tiny smile. "What's wrong with boring? Boring's nice sometimes."

The shadow that flitted over the child's face clued Solas into some of what he must be feeling. The apostate said, "Only one who has had an overabundance of excitement in his life would seek comfort in boredom."

Moineau started, then shot the older elf a piercing look. Then he slumped and said, "Auntie Leliana says I should go outside. She says I ought to find adventures and play games and make friends with the shem kids in the camps. But how can I when—?" He cut himself off with a shudder. "I just want to read."

Frowning, Solas said, "Then do so. I will not stop you."

The boy gave him a heart-wrenching look of gratitude and settled back into the chair, turning the page with a sigh.

Solas looked down at Moineau's shorn head, then started at a tug on his hand. Alouette stood next to him, her other hand in her mouth, big eyes staring at him. "Yes, Alouette?"

She half-turned and pointed back toward where she'd been crouched. He turned to look and only saw the mural. Her pointing became more urgent. Solas sighed. "Can you not just tell me, little one?"

"She doesn't talk. Not anything more than baby words anyway," Moineau said, not looking up. "She's an idiot."

Taken aback, Solas said, "That's not very kind."

"It's true though. She can't learn letters. Even Auntie Leliana called her simple." The boy glanced over and saw Solas's displeased glower. "Just cause you don't like it, don't mean it's gonna change."

A sharp pull on his hand forestalled any reprimand that would have come out of his mouth. Solas let the girl pull him to the wall, bending to see what she wanted to show him.

Her fingers danced over the bright colors of the mural, brushing along line and edge. Her blond hair, grown now to three or four inches of yellow fluff, made him think of dandelions. He smiled at her when she put both palms to the wall and patted. "You like the paint, Alouette?"

With bobbing head, she turned to him.

Solas said, "Would you like _to_ paint?"

Her head threatened to snap off with the force of her nodding. The apostate stood straight and said, "Wait here. I shall return."

* * *

The requisition quartermaster looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "Wot? Why would we have something like that on hand?"

Solas said, calm though Ser Morris's demeanor irked, "I am merely asking."

"Well, we don't. And if you want it, it'll be three weeks from Val Royeaux to get it. It's not a priority, so it'll be at the bottom of the list." The quartermaster turned and picked up a list. "So, on the list or not?"

"Add it. Send a messenger when it arrives," said he, turning to leave. Thoughts whirled as he tried to think of an alternative. He supposed he could just tell Alouette that she'd have to wait, but something deep within him shied away from that. He didn't want disappointment to dim the light in the little girl's eyes.

Strange that it should bother him so.

Or maybe he just didn't want to add another hurt to the long list of hurts he'd already wrought.

He'd just entered the great hall when a thought occurred to him. Striding all the way down, past the throne, he pushed the door to the Undercroft open.

A loud clanging filled the vault, along with a lot of muffled swearing grumbled in the most feminine voice imaginable. The heat of the creative invectives brought a mild flush to his ears as it concluded with, "— _Work_ , damn you! You motherless, balless, great hunk of oily shit from the Maker's crusty asshole! … Oh! I have company."

Dagna scooted out from under the machine causing her vexation. A sheepish grin grew on her grease-coated, filthy face. She mumbled, "Sorry, the, uh, um …. Ha."

Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No, it's fine," she said, tossing a wrench onto the machine. With a grimace, she winced at the loud bang and subsequent hissing whine the thing emitted. She sighed. "It's broken. Like so many things are. Well, enough 'bout that. What can I do you for, mister elf?"

"Please, call me Solas. I had a bit of a quandary I was hoping you could help me with."

Her smile grew wide and joyful. She teased, "Well, yeah, otherwise you wouldn't be down here."

"Indeed." He chuckled. "I had noticed Dorian's jerkin the other day. How it had been tinted. Do you have dyes down here?"

"Boy, do I!" She very nearly skipped to a set of tables and copper cisterns along the western wall. He followed and saw rows of jars with dry pigment in them. Bales of fabrics and leathers lay off to one side.

"And do you have acacia gum?" he asked.

"Of course. You can't make an acid dye without it," she scoffed, playful and light. "So, whaddya need? New lining for your jacket? Spruce up the old tunic? I'm pushing for pink. Pinkquisition!"

He laughed at her exuberance. "No, nothing so grand. I was hoping you might assist me in making some watercolors."

No hesitation before she said, "Sure! Pans? How many? What color range?"

Solas hummed. "Let's start with simple."

"Okay, so … _every_ ," she said, then held up her hands in the face of his oncoming protest. "C'mon, Solas. I need something more than 'simple' to occupy my brain. It won't take that much more time to make the full run."

Later, when Alouette opened the case to see a _rainbow_ , glistening there in her hands, the brightness of her smile broke through the bleak greyness of the last three weeks. She took the brush and paper from his hand and plopped down under the scaffold with a bowl of water nearby to dilute the colors.

Solas watched with a fondness bordering on silly.

Then he went and sat in the chair opposite Moineau, who still read the big boring Blight book. Taking up his own discarded reading, Solas sighed, deep and cleansing.

A strange peace stole over him, listening to the boy idly flipping pages, the girl hum as she filled paper after paper with dream-like colors.

"I never figured you for a domestic, Solas," said Dorian, who'd just entered the rotunda with plate of supper in hand.

Only then did the apostate realize the sun dipped close to the horizon, if the ruddy, golden late afternoon light spilling in behind Dorian told true. Hours had passed with him none the wiser. He chuckled. "I am not."

"Then whence came this cozy little scene, hm?" The Tevinter gestured toward the three of them.

A voice called from above, "Alouette. Moineau. Go get dinner for yourselves from the kitchen."

The children scrambled, laying down art and book to run past Dorian and out the door. The mage said, teasing, "Savages."

"To be honest, I've never spent much time around children. They … puzzle me." Solas gestured that the mage should take the chair. Dorian obliged.

"I've never been too fond of them myself. Sticky hands, you know." He set his plate on the thick tome the boy discarded. "They seem to have taken to _you_ , though. Thinking of adopting?"

At that, Solas did laugh. "No. I … would never suit. They deserve to be raised by someone who at least understands children." How could he even begin to do so? There had been no children in Arlathan, none born of an elf's immortal body anyway. None so half-formed or lacking in basic ability. Only since the Quicke—

Dorian interrupted those thoughts. "Plus we have this whole Corypheus thing to take care of, and an Inquisition to build. And dragons to kill, red templars to kill, venatori to kill. That 'killing' part is the longest part of the list by far. So many to kill." Dorian took a dainty bite of his food. "It'll be a wonder if half of Thedas is still alive after we get done."

"I often have similar fatalistic thoughts," said Solas, with a nod.

"Hmmm," said the Tevinter. They sat in silence for a long time, then Dorian said, "Oh! Have you heard the latest news from Emprise du Lion?"

"No. I've been … busy. With my studies. With the Fade." Solas quelled the sudden swelling of excitement that rose within.

"Well, they've established the camp at Drakon's Watch _and_ found an old Grey Warden keep called Valeska's Watch. Blackwall and I head out to join them in the morning. Bull and Sera are already on their way back."

Solas's dropping guts did a jealous flip, though he kept the disappointment from showing on his face. He said, both bright and cheerful, "Excellent. The campaign goes well then."

By the softening around Dorian's mouth, Solas thought maybe the mage saw clear through his bluster. If he did, he didn't pry. For which Solas felt gratitude. Dorian said, "It does. A month to solidify the Inquisition's position there and then the push to Suledin's Keep."

" _Suledin_. No possessive needed," corrected Solas.

"Oh? I thought perhaps it was named for someone, you know, famous. Or infamous. That happens, too."

"No. It means 'endure.'"

"Good name for a fortress, even missing the grandeur of some hero's deeds. I can't wait to see it." Dorian stood, and meandered toward the north entrance. "I have to go pack. Apparently, it's all ice and snow there. And red lyrium. I'll have to get my winter coat out of storage." The mage prattled on as he left, door swinging closed behind him.

Solas pinched the bridge of his nose.

So, she didn't need him.

Was that really a bad thing? His insides warred over the two ideas. The strength of the woman had always impressed him, born as it was out of pain and darkness. Things that would have made lesser beings crumble to dust. He'd seen some of it when she survived the Anchor, and it continued to surprise him.

So, no, she didn't need him any more beyond his knowledge. No crutch, no prop to keep her up.

 _It's just …._

 _It had been nice … to be needed. As a comrade._

 _As a friend._

* * *

 **A/N: The angst-train cometh. lol. So much going on in this chapter. Plot then fluff then angst. Gawd, I love angst. Hmmm. I also had fun doing the very domestic scene there in the middle. Solas and kids, man. That's gotta be a winning combination, even if he isn't exactly comfortable around them. But then again, making Solas uncomfortable is my bread and butter. Ha! Anyway, hope you're still likin' it! Until next time.**


	32. Chapter 32

She stood there.

Solas nearly dropped his cup of water. His one foot stuck to the last step down from the second floor.

She _was_ there.

Not a dream, not some fantasy. _Ma Tir'alas is home._

Standing by his desk, back to Solas. Dust and dirt and flecks of red-brown all over. Her wild hair, loose, flowed down to just between her shoulderblades. The staff at her back seemed more blade than haft.

He watched as she started to reach for something on his desk, then stop when she noticed the grime and blood on her gloves. Delicately, she took the tips of the glove's fingers between teeth and pulled. She then tucked the article into her belt and reached once more.

The paper lifted in her pale, long-fingered grip and he could see now that his latest sketch adorned it. The plan for the next section of rotunda wall. He could just see the curve of her cheek lift and what that did to his heart ….

He swallowed once and whispered, "Do you like it?"

Starting, she whipped her head around, dropping the paper onto the floor. Her grey eyes met his then skittered away. She rubbed one foot against the back of her calf, tense and awkward.

Solas could hardly blame her, for the same roiled within him.

Tir'alas cleared her throat and said, "Solas, I …." She frowned as the rest of that sentence seemed to evaporate.

The apostate approached, slow so as not to alarm and bent to pick up the drawing. Smoothing it, he gestured to the intended wall. "I'm going to put it there. I think the contrasting lines will enhance the piece adjacent. Make for a more energetic dynamic."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Inquisitor shuffle to look where he pointed, though her gaze kept cutting to his profile. When he let his eyes drift back to her, she looked away. To the other things on his desk.

Her fingers rifled through the sheets and sheets of watercolors. "And these?"

"Ah, those are Alouette's. Da'len shows talent for it, a natural instinct for color palettes." He smiled.

"And where will _they_ go?" said she, a hidden smile in her tone. She gestured to the surrounding walls.

Solas chuckled. "Everywhere if she had her way. I believe she's currently gifting them to people. Nearly everyone in the barracks has one of her masterpieces pinned near their bunks."

The image of that swirled in her eyes and she smiled, joy with a drop of sorrow in it. Then her smile fell away and she said, soft and uncertain, "There was another one at the gate. She's been waiting for me for two months."

"Another da'len?" he said, frowning.

"This is getting so … out of hand. They just keep arriving." She swept a hand through her tangled hair. Her teeth worried at her lip. "They'll just _keep_ arriving until—" She cut herself off with a shake of her head and tightly shut eyes..

"Until what, lethallan?" he asked.

Her look then as she finally met his gaze stunned him. Wounded and fearful. "I can't. What they want, I just … I just _can't_."

Too aware of the listening Spymaster upstairs, Solas deflected the topic to safer arenas. "I suppose that's the reason you came back early?"

With a relieved sigh, she said, "Yes. _A_ reason." Then her eyes slid sideways to him from beneath thick eyelashes.

He couldn't deny a sudden leaping of a certain blood-pumping organ into his throat. "Oh? And your others?"

She coughed and said, "I found out what those glowing skulls are for."

Her other hand set a stone tablet on his desk. An embossed skull within a spiked circle carved into it. The center glowed a faint blue. Intrigued, Solas set down his cup and ran his fingers along the craggy surface. It tingled against his skin.

"I also brought this," she said, reaching into a bag at her waist, setting an actual skull atop the tablet. A large crystal adorned one socket. "I didn't want to leave the poor sod for just anyone to come along and use like he didn't _matter_." She spat that last with vehemence. Then she sighed. "Guess that means I should go collect the others."

Solas took in the grim remnant and the strange energies coming off it with that same slinking dread that only touched him when around … certain people. "I believe this belonged to a Tranquil."

"You can tell that just by looking?" she said, stunned, turning the skull to scrutinize it herself, scowling when it refused to surrender its secrets.

"I can tell that just by _feeling_." Solas suppressed a shudder. "But I can tell by looking that it isn't very old. It is rather … fresh." Time did not wither flesh from bone. He suspected a more malevolent purpose attached to diabolical hand. "These faint markings on the skull look Tevene to me. Perhaps Dorian or your advisors will have more information."

Tir'alas nodded, finger playing with lip in deep thought. "I'll ask."

"The tablet itself, however, I am not so certain. There is something … familiar," he said, touching the edge of the stone. He turned to her. "I'd … appreciate a chance to study it further after you show it to the others."

"Done," she said, still looking down at the artifact.

A light touch on his other hand startled him. He looked to see that her bare thumb just barely brushed the outside of his palm. Slowly, he turned his hand so their fingers entwined. His breath seized, full lungs pressing pounding heart.

Her gaze caught his once more and she said, soft so it did not reach those above. "I … missed you, Solas."

Involuntarily, his eyes closed as those simple words washed through him, allowing him to breathe again. Solas swallowed past the lump in his throat and said, "And I you. It has been a long few months."

"Ir abelas. For the things I said. I know you do not pity me. You are sorry for circumstance, as am I. And you are ... too curious by half." She stepped closer.

He could smell the blood and dirt and smoke, the oily patina of red lyrium over the whole. She'd not even waited for a bath to come see him. And how that thought pulled at his aching sternum, and brought a flush to his face.

She continued, "Cruel is a reflex drilled into me. And I'm trying so hard not to be cruel. I fail … often."

Opening his eyes, Solas saw her right before him, her expression tight with sorrowful contrition. His other hand came up and stroked her jaw, wishing he could bring himself to draw his thumb over those lips he dreamed of kissing over and over again. Bending his neck, he brought their foreheads together.

The simple contact soothed. Her eyes slid shut even as her breath hitched.

"There is nothing to forgive," he said.

The tense line of her shoulders eased. "Well, now we know we can hurt each other. If we didn't care, then it wouldn't hurt."

"True."

"I missed you."

He laughed. "You said that already."

She hummed amusement. "I missed your … calm. Your voice. Your quiet ways. But what I think I missed most was your lack of complaints."

Solas laughed again, pulling back to look at her sly, grinning face. "Did Dorian not enjoy frigid Emprise du Lion?"

She scowled. "None of them did. As though the weather will change if you grumble loud enough."

"Did you not show him how to repel the cold?" Of all the arts lost to the ages, how odd that it would be one so simple.

"A girl has to have _some_ secrets, Solas." Her gaze shifted with deviousness.

"Then it's hardly _his_ fault you had to put up with his complaining."

"No, I reject that argument. No one has to complain out loud." She shook her head, face set into that stubbornness he'd come to treasure. Then she turned thoughtful. "I feel a little bad about it now, though. Dorian caught a cold and got mucus all over his fine winter coat."

Shaking his head at the Inquisitor, he said, teasing, "And you brought him back here? Now we're all going to get it."

"No, we won't. I treated it on the way back. He's not contagious … any more."

"'Any more?'" he asked, as her tone seemed to suggest something dire.

"Blackwall might have the sniffles." She frowned. "I'll keep an eye on him. But right now, I need a bath. I stink."

Solas smiled. "I was not going to say anything, but …."

She gave a sigh of feigned exasperation and rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll go get cleaned up, so I don't curl your nose hairs, and _then_ I expect a Fade story."

"I am always willing to oblige if given payment in kind," he said.

Tir'alas shuffled a bit, but stayed. "Solas?"

The apostate smiled wider into her eyes, made happy by their reconciliation, their conversation. Her promise to return. "Hmm?"

"I can't leave unless you let go of my hand. You're sort of ... squishing my fingers." As she wiggled hers against his, he realized just how tight he held her.

With the tiniest hesitation, he let her go, chagrin heating the back of his neck. Lifting the other to rub at the hot skin, he gave an awkward wave as she left, her strides quick and sure as ever.

With light and dizzy heart, Solas leaned on his desk, forgotten cup of water spilling on his drawing. Grunting an oath, he righted the cup he bumped with his hip. Grabbing a rag, he sopped up the mess, sighing when the lines of ink started to blur. Now, he'd have to draw it again. Damn.

"I see the Inquisitor has already dropped in," said a smooth, feminine voice at his back.

Solas grit his teeth and turned to greet Vivienne, who'd just entered, her travel clothes stained and creased. "What makes you say that, Madame?"

The circle mage smiled, condescending. "Because she's the only one who can steal _your_ composure, dear, and crack that stoic facade."

Instead of aggravation, a mirth bubbled up in him. He gave a short laugh. "I suppose that's true enough. How did things go at the capital?"

"Well, between you and me, very badly. It did not help our petition to have our Inquisitor's magical inclinations become known." Vivienne sighed. "But it cannot be helped. It would have been found out sooner or later, the way she's been throwing lightning bolts at anything that moves. However, Empress Celene is stunned and amazed by our progress in Emprise and elsewhere."

"That's good, is it not?"

"The situation isn't ideal, but I've managed to get us invited to the Winter Palace come Satinalia in spite of all our … difficulties."

"At the end of the year?"

"Yes, the event of the season wouldn't happen in just any old month." Vivienne looked harried for a moment. "I cannot even begin to comprehend how we'll have her ready for it. I shall have to contact tutors in the finer courtly arts. Dining, dancing, comportment. Really, there's so much."

"I doubt you'll find her agility lacking," said Solas, with a chuckle.

"Perhaps not, but how does one expect grace from a creature who chews her nails and spits them on the floor?"

For a moment, the temptation to tell Vivienne that Tir'alas only did that to raise her ire nearly overtook him, but he resisted. A girl had to have some secrets after all and he would never spill hers. Not now he'd finally gained some of her trust in sharing them.

Solas instead gave a roll of his shoulders and said, smiling, "If anyone can find a way, you can, Madame de Fer."

She smiled, haughty as ever. "Of that, I am certain. Good day, Solas."

"Madame." He nodded.

As he sat and pondered, Solas dropped his chin in hand and wished for evening to come faster.

* * *

 **A/N: Aaaaaaagh! I can never leave them out of sorts for long. Solas and his silly feelings. I love writing them. They make me so happy, even when they're doom and gloom. Anyway, shoot me some feedback or crit should the mood take you. Cheers!**


	33. Chapter 33

"Told you," said Varric, with ever-present smirk creasing his face. "An orphanage."

The dwarf gestured toward the teams of workmen and women taking apart a ruined section of Skyhold. Stonemasons and architects argued over vellum prints. The workers fast deconstructed the pile of brick, loading it into wheelbarrows to take to the actual site of the new building near the stable.

"Don't know why they just couldn't paste all them blocks right back together there," called Sera from her window above the tavern, where she hung out over the sill watching the activity.

"Tavern. Smithy. Cassandra. Not to mention the 'Sing-quisition.'" Tir'alas pointed to each in turn. The Seeker gave her a frown and quirked brow, but didn't relent her loud striking at the dummies with her sword. The Inquisitor continued, "Not exactly conducive to making sure da'len'en stay out of trouble. No. They will be better off near the stable and kitchen."

"Are you sure you just don't want them further away from you?" teased Varric.

Tir'alas smiled. "The thought did occur to me, though Skyhold is not big enough to avoid them altogether."

Josephine hummed then said, "I did as you asked and looked into foster-homes, but with all the civil unrest …." She grimaced.

"I understand. Keep looking though. Good homes. Not … not tenuous ones with uncertain futures." The Inquisitor's eyes crinkled before she spun on one heel. She stalked away, shoulders high and hunched.

Varric winked at Solas and said, "Excuse me. I have things to discuss with our Inquisitor." Then he scooted off as well.

"Where's them elfy brats gonna find homes, eh? Alienage? With some noble pricks what keep them like pets? That'll drown'em when they get too old to be cute?" called Sera after them, ugly sneer on her face.

Solas had to admit she had a point. Tossing them into human cities may land them in _worse_ circumstances.

"The boss _knows_ , Sera," said Bull, who stood straight from where he'd been leaning on the tavern wall.

"Well, it's stupid. Pointless. Until we snuff Coryphetits, ain't a chance in hell of finding good homes for anybody, leastwise some knife-ear fidgets." Sera looked around at all the glares leveled her way. "Wot? It's true. You know it is."

Cassandra sighed and put up her sword. "Pointing out the obvious does nothing to solve the issue. We will just have to wait and see and hope for the best. In everything."

Solas sighed and turned toward the great hall. The children belonged with the Dalish. With the People.

He still had yet to find out why the Dalish didn't believe that. He thought back to the story Tir'alas had told him last night as they walked in the solitude of the empty garden—

" _Once, when I was very small, I ran with the other Dalish children. Not really a part of them, but they were less … cold to me than the adults. The harsh things they said not really what_ they _believed, but what their parents said, if that makes any sense. Words merely repeated, not felt in the heart._

 _So it came to pass we stumbled upon a dead boar. It had been there awhile, but not long enough for the sun to have dried it to a husk. Maggots swarmed in every hole of its head. The other da'len'en balked and screamed, but I alone reached out. The rot did not displease me, the smell was a strange comfort._

 _Because of that demon, it never occurred to me to shy away from decay or death._

 _I was curious. I put my hand in the bed of squirming larva on its tongue and giggled at how they tickled. When I looked up to tell the others, they'd gone. Fled from me and my strangeness. The children told their parents and I was not allowed to play with them any more._

 _I didn't understand why for many years."_

Had Moineau and the others similar tales? Is that why they'd been rejected?

No. Rejection is only part of it. Solas wondered at the rest as he wandered into the rotunda. Three children whooped and laughed among the ravens in the rafters, probably driving the Spymaster insane with their raucous play.

"Solas?" said a female voice above him. He looked up to see Tir'alas and Dorian peering down at him.

"Yes, lethallan?"

"Will you come with us to Redcliffe? Dorian has some business there to take care of and I'd heard a rumor about those damn skulls," she said, with warm smile.

Solas nodded, echoing her smile.

"Inquisitor, surely you can't mean to leave me here with these-these …." Leliana's face pulled in desperation and consternation from where she leaned over the railing at the top of the rotunda.

"Barbarians? Dear Leliana, I told you once already. If you can't keep track of them, find someone who will," Tir'alas said, sweet as poison. Then her flinty glare softened. "Lucky for you, I've already talked to Mother Giselle. The Chantry sisters will be taking over their care."

"Oh, thank the Mak—"

"As soon as the new quarters are built," finished the Inquisitor, with smooth aloofness.

Solas almost laughed at the apoplectic spots that appeared on the Spymaster's cheeks.

Dorian had no such restraint himself, though, and let out a loud guffaw as he and Tir'alas made their way downstairs. The Tevinter said, "Let's leave before she explodes."

Arms linked, the trio made their way to the stable, collecting a dwarf in their wake. Varric laughed as Dorian told him the reason Tir'alas couldn't stop chuckling.

* * *

"I can hardly believe it. That his own father would do something that … that shitty," said Varric to Solas in a muttered aside.

"Master Tethras, has anyone ever told you it's rude to eavesdrop?" said he, giving the dwarf a disapproving frown. Though, he'd overheard as well. The windowpanes of the tavern did little to block sound. A sick, roiling sensation settled in his guts.

The pair stood away from Tir'alas and Dorian as they talked in low voices just outside Redcliffe's tavern. The Tevinter's face creased with hidden hurts brought to light, eyes moist, mouth pulling this way and that, trying to contain it all.

Tir'alas spoke to Dorian in soft tones, her hand on his shoulder. Solas couldn't make out her words, but her intent, earnest expression and sympathetic stare said it all.

"Can't blame a guy for wanting to know what's going on with all this clandestine secret meeting stuff," grumbled Varric, shifting around in awkward fashion. The dwarf rubbed at his neck.

Dorian lunged forward and embraced the stunned Inquisitor, who after a moment of frozen shock, reached up and hugged him back. Her hands pet the trembling mage's spine while her furious gaze met Solas's grim one. One of her hands jerked a thumb toward the inn and then ran along her throat.

 _I dearly want to kill him,_ the gesture said _,_ meaning Dorian's father.

Solas rolled a shoulder, then nodded toward Dorian. _What does_ he _want? What does he_ need _?_

She sighed and rolled her eyes. Just then Dorian broke away, speaking loud enough for them all to hear, "Alright. Enough of that or I'll start blubbering."

"You must speak with him, I suppose," said Tir'alas. "Hear what he has to say for himself. Then if you want, if his answers do not satisfy, I still have my knife." She pulled it then from the small of her back. Not like the long, serrated things she used to wield, but it could readily do the job.

The Tevinter laughed. "As much as I adore how bloodthirsty you are, my dear, murder doesn't solve everything."

"It solves a great deal, but no …," she said, with a sigh. "This is … _probably_? ... Not one of those things? We'll stay the night. You and the stupid man who is _supposed_ to love you can talk alone in the common room while we keep to the upstairs. Dorian?"

"Yes, Tir'alas?" he said, sad smile on his handsome face.

She gave him a look that swore violence should he wish it. "You need only shout."

"I-I know, my … _friend_." He gave her another hug, less desperate than the last, then stood away, girding himself. "Well, let's get this over with."

Later, lying on the too comfortable bed, Solas listened to the scratching of Varric's quill. The dwarf sat at the table in the corner of the one room they'd been able to acquire. The inn only had two to let. Dorian's father had the other one.

Tir'alas perched on the windowsill, head cocked toward where low voices filtered up through the hall. Tense. Watchful.

"So, how are we going to do this sleeping arrangement thing?" asked Varric, not pausing in his work.

"I do not mind setting out a bedroll," said Solas. "I fear this bed is too soft for my back."

"Old bones creaking, hahren?" said Tir'alas, smirking.

"Old, am I?" he mused. "You may have the right of it. Or perhaps I merely defer to the young and spoilt, _da'len_."

Tir'alas's mouth opened and shut several times before she muttered, "I have slept on just as many rocks as you since the Conc—"

"Yes, yes, we can all do the happy camping thing, but," Varric pointed out. "There's a bed. And it's a double. And if there's anything I learned about adventuring, you don't ever waste a bed."

Solas chuckled. "Perhaps you should take it, then."

"Oh, I'd love to. Don't get me wrong. But what about Sparkler?"

Tir'alas spoke up, "Dorian can have the bed. The rest of us can take the floor, though I will probably not sleep until that magister leaves in the morning."

"You think he's up to something?" asked Varric.

She looked out the window with a hard frown. "A man like that is capable of anything."

Solas said, soft, "Even atonement?"

Startled for a moment, Tir'alas shot him a look of appraisal, then she smiled, wistful and inward. "I suppose that's true. But let's not take any chances."

"Agreed," echoed Varric and Solas. They looked at each other with crooked smiles.

"I guess that means we're still on the clock." Varric sighed and pushed his wineskin away. "Bye bye, booze. Maybe tomorrow."

Many hours passed in tense silence. Solas stirred from his doze on the floor when the door creaked open. Dorian, hair mussed a bit, staggered in. _He'd_ clearly not refrained from drinking. Not that Solas could blame him.

Boots banged as they dropped to the floor. The bed creaked under the man's weight as he sat on it. Then Dorian fell into the bed without bothering to undress, rolling so he faced the wall. His legs drew into his chest.

After awhile, Dorian's shoulders began to shake and his soft breath, gasping and uneven, told the tale of stifled weeping. Perhaps muffled around fist to teeth. Trying to be silent.

He seemed practiced at it.

Solas looked on, uncertain in the face of the man's vulnerability. His shame.

From behind Solas, he heard a soft sigh and the rustle of cloth.

Tir'alas stepped over him and slid into the bed at Dorian's back, slim arm wrapping around the mage's chest. No jealousy sparked in Solas, for he could recognize simple comfort when he saw it. Perhaps a touch of envy, but that was a different matter.

No, reverence with a spike of humility ran courses in his jumping heart.

That she would act where others hesitate.

She hummed as she stroked the Tevinter's hair, her melody soft and more than a bit off-key.

Dorian relaxed under her ministrations, his breath calming. He whispered, "Tir'alas, that's ... that's just awful."

She chuckled, and returned just as soft, 'I know. I have no ear."

"Funny thing for an elf to say." After a moment of silence, the mage said, "I didn't say stop."

With another huffing laugh, Tir'alas continued humming.

The sound drifted over them, a strange counterpoint to Varric's rumbling snore.

"Got anything … to make me forget?" whispered Dorian.

Her humming ceased on a measured sigh. Tir'alas leaned close to the mage and said, "Someone wise, someone I admire once told me, ' _You cannot just drug yourself into oblivion. It solves nothing.'"_

Solas's ears grew warm at her words and the echo of memory. The phrase, ' _someone I admire,'_ kept rolling around and around in his head. How odd that the warmth spread so quickly to the whole of his body. He resisted the urge to shift and alert her to his wakefulness.

Dorian huffed. "Debatable. But I see your point."

"Forgetting is never the answer. All it does is leave a hole. Here," she said. Solas could not see where she pointed, but he could guess. "We mortal beings are incomplete enough."

"But it _hurts_." Dorian sounded so wounded.

"It might forever. But it's yours. And yours to fight. No one else's to take away. Not opium's. Not Cole's." She settled at his back again, embracing the mage. " _Hellathen_. The noble struggle. It's not just the enemies without, but the ones within as well."

"It seems you've caught a touch of wise yourself," said Dorian, a reflection that Solas heartily agreed with. Then his tone turned sly, "Was it venereal?"

" _Hush_ , ma falon," she hissed, with a quick glance over her shoulder. Solas closed his eyes just in time to avoid detection.

Dorian gave a small chuckle. "Aw, come on. We talk about _my_ love life, or ... lack thereof. So, what is it? Secluded bowers in the wilderness to give into your passions? Elvhen ruins? Your quarters? His? Oh, wait. He sleeps in the rotunda. Don't tell me you've done it in the rotunda. I won't ever be able to sit on that couch again."

Mortification chased embarrassment throughout Solas's frame, hot and cold chills that made him feel fevered. Not to mention the reaction of his body to imaginings sparked by Dorian's words. In his chair. Up against one of the murals. On the damned rookery balcony.

He almost missed her reply.

" _Dorian_!" she seethed, lightly smacking the mage in the back of the head.

"Ow! My beautiful hair," he complained, then quieted, clearly realizing his voice had risen. But he didn't relent. "At least tell me if he's good in bed. You know how juicy gossip feeds my soul."

She gasped, then sputtered, "I don't …. It …. We haven't …. H-he hasn't-I don't even know if he—"

"Really? Shame," said Dorian, with a deep sigh. "Well, when you do, I want to hear all about it."

"By the Dread Wolf, Dorian! Just-just go to sleep," she said, huffing in exasperation. Solas's heart seized, a painful spasm that tested his ability to stay still and quiet. He'd never heard her use that particular oath before. It struck him in the spine like lightning.

"Virgins are so adorable," said the Tevinter, with a tiny gloat in his voice.

She retorted, flat, "I never said I was."

"You never said you weren't."

"Go to sleep."

"Yes, mother." Dorian settled deeper into the creaking bed. "Mmm, I bet it's the shoulders, isn't it. They do look cozy, perfect for laying one's cheek upon. Or nibbling."

"If you wake up and find half your mustache missing, you'll know why."

Shocked, the mage gasped, "Now _that_ really hurt."

"Go. To. Sleep."

With a few more grumbles, Dorian's breathing changed, signalling the transition to sleep. Tir'alas sighed and shifted.

Denying temptation, Solas kept his eyes shut. His skin prickled though, felt the weight of her consideration. He hoped his face did not appear as flushed as it felt in the wan candlelight, and thanked the gloom for its cloaking presence.

He pretended to slumber for the remainder of the night, too paranoid to open his eyes even a stitch in case she still watched. The dawn filled the room with light, slow and inexorable.

Solas stretched and 'woke,' blinking in the harsh morning glow. He sat up to indeed see that Tir'alas lay propped up in the bed, awake and looking right at him. He cleared his throat of guilt and said, "On dhea, lethallan."

Her storm-grey eyes closed for a moment above a soft and winsome smile. "On dhea, Solas. Sleep well?"

He hid a shiver at the sound of his name on her lips, and returned, "Adequately. Is good Dorian still with us? Not whisked away in the night by dark Tevinter magics?"

"Look for yourself," she chided with teasing tone, moving her steepled legs off the bed so he could see the sleeping mage.

"Ah. Good." He stood and set to packing his bedroll back up. Then, he pointed and said, "Shall I do yours?"

Tir'alas frowned, saying, "Why?"

"Because I'm right here and it's not any trouble?" he replied, dry and matter of fact. Solas started to roll hers into a bundle.

Taken aback, Tir'alas's brows furrowed. "I …. Ma serannas, lethallin."

"Wanna get mine, too, Chuckles?" Varric said, rolling out of his pile of furs.

Solas gave him a dark sideways look. "Are your hands broken, master dwarf?"

"Aw, now that's just typical. I'll have you know I can bat my eyes with the best of them." Varric harrumphed, but he started rolling the bedding anyway. Then he demonstrated this 'batting', fluttering his eyelids and pursing his lips into a simper. "See?"

"Well, one can hardly resist such lurid and artful seduction. How unfortunate then that it seems the task is already completed," said Solas, with a wave toward Varric's packed belongings.

"Just call it a raincheck then. I'll collect someday."

"Of that, I've no doubt."

The shouting of people marching into the corridor outside their room drew all their attention. Dorian sat up with a groan. "Well, there goes dear old dad. Never could go anywhere without a whole fleet of servants."

Solas asked, curious, "Servants? Not slaves?"

"He doesn't bring slaves south when he has 'business' here. Says it just leads to ugly confrontations and things. Ugh, what died in my mouth?" Dorian said, tongue scraping over teeth. Then a thought seemed to strike him and his hand flew up to his upper lip. "Oh, thank heavens. I had a nightmare that some horrid woman threatened to shave me."

He speared Tir'alas with a glare, but she just looked back and shrugged. "You would have deserved it if she had."

Dorian smirked. "Probably."

Varric grunted as he shifted his pack around to a more comfortable perch on his shoulder. "So. Now what?"

Tir'alas rubbed her palms together. "Time to do some breaking and entering."

* * *

 **A/N: Ugh, Dorian's personal quest makes me feel all the feels. The way he says ' _Change_ me' kills me every time. I wanted to reach into my screen and slap his dad. Just, just no. It can be argued that 'child-rearing' is just socially acceptable brainwashing, but usually it stops short of actual violation. That cannot stand.**

 **Anyway, soapboxing aside, I hope this leads to your enjoyment. Leave me some reviews, should you like. Cheers!**


	34. Chapter 34

The dwarf frowned. "During the day? Won't that lead to all kinds of problems? Like witnesses? _Witnesses_ are a big problem."

The Inquisitor laughed. "Just makes it more challenging. Why do you think I had Leliana get those special tools made? My hands are not as steady as they used to be with the lockpicking. Why do you think I brought _you_ along?"

"For my stunning good looks and great personality," said Varric, dry and flat. Bianca went into her holster at his back.

Dorian grunted and held a hand before the light. He seemed drained. Dark circles surrounded each eye, giving them a bruised, haunted cast. "Can I not just stay here? I'm hungover and pretty sure I'm going to be useless in a fight."

Tir'alas stamped her foot, and shook her wild mane of hair. "No, you cannot just 'stay here.' I need your brains. You and Solas. Besides, after the shit day we had yesterday, let's do something fun."

Solas commented, "Crime is ... fun?"

Varric laughed. "You'd be surprised."

The Inquisitor grinned a wicked grin and said, "Look, you both showed me what it's like to be a mage. Now come and I will give you a taste of what it's like to be a rogue."

How could he deny that grin anything? Solas snorted and said, "Lead on."

Dorian groaned and stood. "What I wouldn't give for some kaffa."

And so they made their way dockside, where a locked house stood. A whiff of blood magic tickled Solas's nose. He and Dorian exchanged dark looks. The market and square filled with people with morning business, shouting orders and hawking their wares. The docks held fewer numbers, but still teemed with passersby.

As they approached the intended building, Solas watched with interest as Tir'alas's stance changed. Her steps grew lighter and more balanced. Instead of her normal direct walk and gaze, both started to edge and dart. He'd seen one state, or the other, but never the transition itself.

Varric seemed to pick up this stealthy pace as well, surprising Solas with his nimbleness.

The apostate smiled and emulated, with Dorian at his back doing his best to do the same. Four shadows crept along the stone walls of the dock, avoiding places people congregated, pausing to let guards patrol by. They stopped near an upended boat, skulking alongside it.

A lone woman stood near the door to the building, blond-ish in peasant frock. It seemed odd that she would just stand there. What was she waiting for?

Tir'alas growled, and the primal sound wound deep into Solas's core. She said, echoing Solas's thoughts, "What the hell is she doing?"

Varric hummed. "Maybe she's a lookout."

"Well, this is hopeless. Can't break in with her just standing there. Come on, let's go find some breakf—" started Dorian. He made to stand straight, but a slender elven hand yanked him back down by the front of his shirt.

"Shh!" said the Dalish owner of that hand. Tir'alas continued, "Forty seconds til the next guard comes by. Maybe another minute after that til those fishermen haul in their catch and come ashore. If we're going in, we need to do it fast. Varric, have you got those clever fingers ready?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. Here I go." Tir'alas pulled a rag from one of her many pockets and doused it in a liquid from one of her flasks. Using uncommon stealth, the elf slunk forward, staying behind the woman, deadly intent in every measured step.

Dorian frowned, and whispered, 'Is she about to kill that woman? Should we be concerned?"

Solas shook his head. He didn't know.

Varric started out as well, keeping several steps behind the Inquisitor. Tir'alas shot the two mages a look over her shoulder, jerking her head toward the building. Solas and Dorian slipped out of cover and sprinted for the door.

Then, in a fleet move hard to follow, Tir'alas leapt forward and wrapped her one arm around the woman's throat as the other hand covered nose and mouth with cloth. A moment of struggle from the peasant and then she slumped in the Inquisitor's arms.

Tir'alas dragged the woman to the door, where Varric already worked at the lock. She hissed, "Varric, hurry!"

"Damn Fereldens and their five-tumbler locks!" He grunted.

"The guard is coming," whispered Solas, pointing down the dock.

Dorian, eyes alight with interest, crouched low. "A diversion? Solas?"

The apostate smiled. "Yes."

Reaching for his magic, Solas let a trickle flow to Dorian, who took it and added his own. They bent their wills to stabilizing the Work.

The guard stumbled in shock. A small, fluffy gryphon sat at the shore, preening itself with hooked beak. Then it, in complete indolence, rolled in the grass like a big cat, purring. The guard, nonplussed, ventured closer, hand outstretched to touch a legend.

At the last moment, the hybrid animal leapt up and flew, wings beating as it banked up and over the inlet. Shaken and pale, the guard turned this way and that to try to track it, but it had disappeared, seemingly into thin air.

By the time the guard wandered back to his route, convinced he'd hallucinated, no one stood outside the building for him to discover.

Inside, Dorian wheezed a breathless chuckle. "Bet he'll turn that story into high legend before the day is through. I've never crafted an illusion that solid before." He looked at Solas with wonder.

Solas smiled, _Illusions are better with the weight of memory._ He remembered well those beings who loved the sky. Out loud, he said, "It seems we make a good team. Why a gryphon, Dorian?"

"Really, I was thinking about that statue in the town square."

"Ah." Then Solas had seen what was taking form and added his own intent to make it more real.

Meanwhile, Tir'alas had set the woman down. Now Solas could see that she still breathed. Her chest fell and rose in drugged slumber.

Varric called from the back of the building, "Uh, Sticks. You should come see this."

The dwarf's voice held a tight, worrisome note. As a group, they went around corners and through doorways to see stacks of those wood plinths strewn about. Beyond them, shelves adorned the walls. And on these shelves, rows and rows of skulls. Each and all with a crystal lodged in one eye-socket. They glittered at the party, both sad and eerie.

In one corner, a smokestack, charred black from use. All of them could see the shards of bone that littered the ceramic bowl of it and draw the same abhorrent conclusion. A morbid, but efficient means of body disposal.

Tir'alas's gloves squeaked under the strain of her tightening fists. Solas had no love for the Tranquil beyond pity, but even he felt the writhing whip-snap of anger in his gut. The sheer number of people sacrificed to this … horror astounded him.

The Inquisitor stalked back to the front room and crouched in front of the drowsy peasant. A loud smack filled the air as she struck the woman across the cheek. She hissed, "Wake up!"

Eyes blinking in confusion and pain, the woman sat up, rubbing her cheek. "Oh! Where am I? Who are—By the blessed Maker, you're the Inquisitor!"

Tir'alas grinned, menace in the curl of her lip. "Who are you working for?"

"What? I'm a—"

The Inquisitor grabbed her by the chin. "If you lie, I will cut your lying lips from your fat, stupid face. Now tell me who you are working for."

The woman mewled in terror. Tir'alas gave her a shake. Then the peasant said, blubbering, "I'm the baker's apprentice, I swear! In the castle! I don't know what this is all about!"

"Varric, bring me a skull," said the Inquisitor, lilting voice deadly soft. The dwarf scrambled to obey and brought her back what she asked for, dropping it into one upturned hand. She showed it to the woman, who gagged and reeled back. "See this? There is a whole room full of these in the back. Think, woman. Building full of human and elven skulls. Locked. And you, standing outside, watching, like someone's faithful mabari. So, whose bitch _are_ you?"

The peasant quailed under Tir'alas's pitiless gaze. Her hands came up to cover her tear-streaked face. The Inquisitor slapped those hands away, relentless. The woman said, "I'm not—I've never been in here before. I just come here to meet my lad! He's a journeyman-tanner. I thought this was a tannery!"

Varric grunted and said, "That would explain away any … unpleasant smells."

"Inquisitor, look at this," said Dorian, moving to the fore with a book in his hands. He handed it to her.

Flipping through the first few pages, Tir'alas stopped and read in silence the bookmarked one. Her glower darkened and she shook the book at the cowering peasant. "You know what this is? A damned ledger. The rutting venatori kept records of the people they slaughtered. How many. Where they were taken. The number successfully made into one of _these_. They didn't even bother to note the failures, but if one does the math …. Would you like me to read it to you? Would you like to hear what your _lad_ has been up to?"

The woman sobbed. "I didn't know. I swear!"

"You mean you didn't _want_ to know," accused Tir'alas, snapping the book shut and handing it to Solas. He opened it again to read the marked page. "Convince me that you are not an accomplice."

With that, the Inquisitor stood and looked down with chilly malice on the weeping woman, who blubbered, "He were nice to me. C-comely. A little foreign, but not too strange. He come in with the refugees. He … he _listened_."

"So I'll bet you filled his ears with lots of interesting little things. Gossip, news, things like that," Varric said, voice gentle with persuasion. "Nothing important, right? Just whatever sprang to mind."

With a relieved sob, the woman nodded, clinging to the lifeline the dwarf dangled in front of her. Solas had to admire the devious tactic. The peasant said, "He said he'd take me with him."

"Where?" demanded Tir'alas, cold fury snapping. The peasant went white with terror, struck dumb by it.

Varric knelt down next to the girl, holding a hand up between the Inquisitor and her. "Now, hold on. She's cooperating." He turned to look at the peasant. "You _are_ cooperating, aren't you?"

The woman nodded, with vigor and emphasis. Her sodden eyes latched onto Varric in entreaty.

The dwarf squeezed her shoulder and pitched his voice to the friendliest rumble Solas had ever heard, "Take a minute and just breathe. In ... and out. There you go. Now, where was he going to take you?"

"He said-he said some oasis out west. He said it was beautiful." Clutching at the dwarf's sleeve, she broke down into more tears. "I thought he loved me."

Solas spoke, gentle, "What is his name?"

"Nessuno."

Dorian barked a laugh, then when the Inquisitor shot him a questioning look, said, "Apparently, ' _Nobody'_ has been wooing this girl."

"Really? Well, pity he wasn't fool enough to give his slattern his real name as he was prying secrets from between her thighs," said Tir'alas, with a heavy sigh. She looked back on the peasant. "You will tell no one of this, not your family, or your friends, or whatever comely cock comes striding through the door. I will lock this place so the Inquisition can investigate further and put those poor souls to rest. If you see this … Nessuno again-"

"I will tell the Inquisition immediately, your worship!" said she, lunging to her feet. The depth of her bow nearly took her back to her knees.

"Go!" the Inquisitor said, with a tired wave. The peasant scooted off, skirt flying in her haste to be away. Then Tir'alas sighed. "Well, this confirms Leliana's intelligence and Enchanter Renaud's reports."

"An oasis out west? The only true desert out there is the Hissing Waste," said Dorian. "And I don't recall an oasis on any map of the region."

"It's there," said Tir'alas, firm and certain. Solas looked at her. He'd been just about to say the same. Under their curious stares, she said, "I've … been there before."

Solas said, "Really? I'm sure that would make an excellent story."

She shot him a glare. "One that I'm not telling ... yet." Her lips curled on the last.

The apostate gave her a look that said he looked forward to it.

Tir'alas gave Varric a pleased grin. "Good work."

"Oh, me and Hawke wrote the book on the ol' good guard, bad guard routine." The dwarf looked pleased nonetheless. "He brought his brand of scary apostate madman, and I the friendly, short, harmless guy act."

Dorian said, after a moment of silence, "Well, it _has_ been an exciting morning. Crime, interrogation, the smell of a new mystery in the air. Can we please go back to the inn now? I want food and I want sleep. Not necessarily in that order."

Varric laughed. "And I could use a beer."

Tir'alas frowned. "It's not even noon yet."

"Yeah, well, I had to abstain last night so Sparkler here wouldn't get kidnapped. I have to make it up to my liver."

"Well, then, let's just sneak our way out of here, lock the door and I'll get some of our local boys to watch the building, in case those venatori bastards come back."

"Sounds like a good plan, lethallan," said Solas, with a smile to the Inquisitor.

She grumbled, "Don't sound so surprised."

They soon strolled about town as though they hadn't just broken the law or terrorized a citizen of Ferelden. Dorian, eyes starting to gain their old sparkle, laughed. They all looked at him. He said, "That _was_ fun, actually. Skullduggery and threats and whatnot. Well, everything but finding all the skulls and things. So, when's our next big caper?"

Tir'alas snorted over Varric's chuckle. The dwarf said, "Caper? One easy little 'B 'n E', and you think you're a master thief?"

"Well, we all have to start somewhere, Ser Tethras. What about a robbery? Or a heist? Or … cat-burglaring?"

"Look at me, Sparkler. Do I look like a second-story man? I'm a little too stout to fit through most windows." Varric shook his head. "No. I usually work the back end. You know, fencing, brokering, that sort of thing. How about you, Tir'alas? I've seen you scramble over the walls at Skyhold. You've done some work. Miss the ropes and pinchy harnesses?"

She laughed, though Solas thought he detected some discomfort in her eyes. She said, "No, I do not."

"Steal anything I might have heard about?" said the dwarf, fishing. Solas could see the urge to pry riding high in Varric's expression.

She hesitated, then said, "Nothing heavy. Nothing I needed a … fence for."

Varric gave a snort. "Right. Spying. You know ... someday, I'll get you to tell me about it."

"So you can write it down?" she asked, wary.

"Pfft. Of course. Someone has to chronicle all this crazy shit. Might as well be me."

"Somehow I doubt the Chantry will let you print things like that about their Herald," said Solas, sour. "After all, look at what they did to Shartan. Perhaps they'll even dock _her_ ears in future portrayals."

For a moment, Tir'alas seemed shocked, then she shook it off with a shrug. "Does it really matter? We're only here to stop Corypheus. Once we do that, the Inquisition will have done what it was created to do. It'll end."

Dorian smiled. "Perhaps that view may be little naive? You can't throw a boulder in a pond and not expect ripples. For a _long_ time."

Clearly unsettled, Tir'alas lapsed into pensive silence.

* * *

 **A/N: And there it is. Some fun roguey stuff. Well, fun until you find a whole room full of Tranquil skulls. And illusions! Why isn't there more illusion-y stuff in DA? Illusion is one of my favorite schools of magic in D &D. It's so versatile and whatnot. Anyway, comments and critiques are always welcome. I'll try to respond to each one as I'm able. Cheers!**


	35. Chapter 35

"How do you not know to brush your hair?" demanded the Seeker, comb in hand. She yanked at the worst of the knots.

Tir'alas winced as Cassandra pulled at her scalp. She spat back, "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps because I've never had hair long enough to tangle before? Ow!"

"Don't whine. It's unbecoming of a young lady," said Madame de Fer, who lounged nearby. Her furs rustled in the frigid mountain air.

Solas watched with amusement from the other side of the campfire.

The Inquisitor bared her teeth. "I don't _have_ to be a young lady out here. I doubt there's a single lace doily in all of Emprise du Lion. And red templars won't care whether or not I pour the tea in the saucer to cool."

"Ugh, my dear. That is by far one of your worst habits. It's just so … common."

"I don't have time to wait for it to decide to be the right temperature!" Tir'alas snarled, crossing her arms over her chest. Solas fought a mad twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Cassandra tutted, breath steaming, as she pulled another handful of loose hair from the comb. "Hold still. I've just about finished this side."

The Inquisitor steamed in resentment as Vivienne kept up the stream of criticism. "Darling, I don't know how you manage it. Not a single unfrozen puddle larger than your foot, yet there is mud all up the back of your coat—"

"It will brush off."

Not a minute later. "And did I hear Dorian correctly? Breaking and entering? Hardly an image to foster faith in our endeavor. I suppose we're lucky you didn't let yourself be seen—"

" _That's_ what it was ... _Luck_."

And again. "So why, oh why can you not find the time to study etiquette if you can find space in your busy schedule to write that silly boo—"

Solas stirred, ire roused. _Now that is going too far_ —

"Enough!" said Cassandra, with a sharp glare for the circle mage.

A good thing, too, for Solas had just stopped himself from setting the woman on fire. With that last rant, he'd watched Tir'alas shrink into herself, eyes like twin discs of smoldering, molten metal. Something, a lethal counter-strike, coiled just under the surface there. Something so ugly that even _she_ balked at voicing it.

He tried to catch her gaze and failed. She'd gone somewhere inside, detached.

The Seeker set the comb aside and ran her fingers through the Inquisitor's hair. "All done."

Tir'alas stood in one smooth motion, her sleek hair gliding around shoulders like a curtain of starless night. She said, stiff, "Thank you, Cassandra."

The Seeker smiled and said, "Come to me in the morning and I will braid it for you, if you want. It's so soft and beautiful. I would not see the snow make it brittle."

With a tight smile, the Inquisitor nodded. She spun on a heel and walked away from the camp into the dusk-lit wood.

Solas hissed out a breath between clenched teeth. "For all your talk of civility, Vivienne, you do not indulge in it much yourself."

The circle mage cast an indifferent stare his way. "She needs a thick skin. I am preparing her for Halamshiral. You have no idea what vipers lurk there, and _they_ will do it with far more subtlety. They will seek to take her apart with scorn."

"You think her soft? Easily hurt?" He shook his head. "You are a fool. Worry for your own skin, for hidden blades came near to kissing it just now. You are more vulnerable than you realize."

Then he stood, ignoring the touch of confusion and anger on Vivienne's dark face. Solas tracked Tir'alas by her footprints in the snow. Behind him, he heard Cassandra also berating the circle mage.

 _Good_.

Tir'alas deserved stalwart defenders. He remembered the pride that lit her face when they'd completed the last page of that 'silly' book. The thought tickled him now as it had then that it may be the only thing she's ever been proud of.

He found her at the edge of the frozen lake, sitting with feet dangling over the bank. Her right thumb massaged over the Anchor in her left palm. Sitting at her side, Solas gave her a warm smile. She watched him warily for a moment, then relaxed, swinging her feet so sole smacked on frosted embankment.

"You were not cruel," he commented.

She let out a plume of frosted breath. "No, I was not. I was tempted, though. Sorely tempted."

"I saw. As was I," he said, then laughed at her surprised expression. "What? Am I not allowed to be petty?"

"I'd prefer not. Enough of us are already," said she, looking at him askance. "And I like you just as you are. Above all that."

His heart thudded. But his mouth still clung to some wit, "Perhaps I merely thought Madame de Fer looked cold and setting her fine robes alight might remedy that."

She chuckled. "Oh, well, if you just thought to help. That's alright then."

With a sigh, she laid back, her black hair making an even fan on the snow. Biting his lip, he tried not to imagine just rising over the top of her, fitting the curves of their bodies together like he knew they would so well. The muscles over his stomach clenched at the idea.

Then her fingers caught at the leather thong around his neck and pulled with gentle insistence. His pulse hiked as she drew him near, right down so that her mouth sat just next to his ear. She whispered, "We're being watched."

Startled, he just kept himself from peering around. He said, soft and low, "How do you know?"

She sighed again. "I spotted them awhile back. If I'm not mistaken, they're ours."

Then he remembered. "Leliana fears you may be the target of assassination. She said she'd send more of her people to keep an eye on you."

"Oh? She never brought it up with me." Tir'alas's eye, inches from his own, flickered with something like doubt. "Did she happen to say who? Agents of Corypheus? Maybe Tevinter? Nevarra? All of them?"

He kept his face blank of that suspicion that still nestled in his thoughts. He murmured, "She says the wind whispers the name, _Rasdalelan."_

She closed her eyes, but not before he saw the flash of something there, some terrible dread that had nothing to do with fear of bodily harm. She sighed back a tired, "Ah. Wouldn't _that_ be … something."

"Our Spymaster recovered certain … artifacts from the Temple of Sacred Ashes she believes belong to this assassin."

"And did you see these 'artifacts?'" she asked, hooded eye cracking open to peer at him.

"I did."

She didn't respond, though the way her vallaslin stood out in sharp relief on her blanched face said much.

Solas, aching deep under his sternum, ran his warm fingers along her cold cheek. "Smile, lethallan. Or else they may suspect we are just pretending to be lovers, and move closer to hear our actual words."

And she did, a soft and sweet smile that dimpled her cheeks. Her gaze slipped over and locked onto his. "Are we? Pretending?"

Without his meaning to, his traitorous hand slid down the long column of her neck, thumb brushing over her pulse. It thrummed there, quickening at his touch. Calling forth a sweet ache from his bones. The tendons flanking her tender throat stood out as she arched into his palm. Licking his lips, Solas said, "I can think of many more pleasant things to speak of, or do, were we not in the middle of a snowy wood under the many watchful eyes of the Left Hand."

"'Do?'" she echoed, a breath that hardly made sound.

He arched a brow. "Do you think me so unaffected by you?"

Tir'alas took in a short breath. "I hadn't imagined you to be affected at all. I'd been … bold, thoughtless. As always. You seemed more … _perturbed_ than anything."

Solas laughed, soft and low. "The word is close, but the connotation is not. Distraught? Discomposed? Flustered? All these and more. You … unsettle me. In a good way. I'd never thought to enjoy imbalance as I do in your compa—"

Her lips crashed into his, heavy and hungry. A moan drew up from his very loins to escape into her mouth. She shivered against him, hands reaching out to grasp at his thick, woolen coat. Similarly, his fingers dove for any piece of her they might reach to tease out into the open. One hand tangled in her impossibly soft hair while the other pushed the edge of her shirt up.

At the first touch of the soft skin of her midriff, he stopped, savoring the heat he found there. Like hot silk, it slid over his fingertips. Then he found the small of her back and wished to remain there forever. It fit so perfectly to his hand. His lips parted further around questing tongue. Hers opened wider to admit it.

 _Sweet_. Scorching. Like a furnace. He explored every inch of her mouth. She, in game fashion, sought to return the favor and they tangled for dominance between two smiles.

She broke away for breath, then licked and kissed her way down his throat. Oh, how sinfully good that felt. His eyes shut on the delicious sensation even as his head fell back to give her better access. Panting clouds of frost into the air from his open mouth, he pressed his aching length to her hip.

Tir'alas gasped against the hollow of his throat, pulling away to look down. Her fingers clenched at his shoulders, and she jerked her head up to look him in the eye. There he read lust, excitement … and _fear_.

Pulling away took a monumental effort, but he managed, drawing in huge breaths to steady himself. Looking deep into her eyes, he rasped, "Best not give them too much to put in their reports. I would not share any part of you with them."

She gulped and nodded, want and relief warring in her gaze. Words seemed to escape her as she looked over his whole face like she'd never seen it before, lingering on his mouth, his eyes. It made him quake to be studied so, made him feel as though he deserved such unreserved adoration, just for a second.

With a deep sigh bordering on a whimper, he said, "Also, perhaps we … we are not ready." A statement with a curl at the end of it, making it almost a question.

Relief won, and it shone from her eyes along with a touching gladness that he understood.

The snow beneath them had all but melted under their heat, both bodily and magical. It soaked through his cloak, making his clothes cling to his body even more than the sweat did. He could only imagine what the back of her tunic and trews looked like.

"We should go back to camp," he said, smiling down into her flushed face.

"A little longer," she said, her own lips curling. "Tell me a story. Do you have any about Suledin Keep?"

He laughed. "I do … have one. It's long, though. Would it not be better shared in a dry tent?"

"Are you offering to share your tent with me again?" How he loved to hear her voice go breathy like that. "It could be unwise, hahren. One of us may end up ravished."

His chuckle rolled out dark and deep. "Rest assured, if _that_ ever happens, neither one of us will be unwilling."

"But if we speak our stories in camp, we'll have to lay very close to each other so Cass and Vivienne or anyone else doesn't hear."

"As much as that will strain my self control, I'm game if you are," he said, feeling his smile starting to turn … predatory.

Her wide eyes took in his lips and she flared a brighter pink under the rising moons. Then she lunged past him to her feet in the blink of an eye. With insolent smirk, she said, "Last one back goes first!"

Then off she sprang, with him hot on her heels. Her hair, wet and flaked with frost, swung to and fro above soaked jerkin and pants. He could almost see through them. The urge to overtake and pounce on her nearly took his wits as they careened past fir and pine.

Solas reached out and just felt the ends of her locks on his fingertips as they ran into camp. The heads of sentries turned to mark their progress, then swung back to watch the perimeter.

At the last, he put on a burst of speed and surpassed the puffing Inquisitor, wheezing laughter as he slid into his tent. He held out his arms as she came barreling through the opening behind him, swinging them both down onto his bedroll and furs in a pile of tangled limbs.

He could not help pressing his lips to hers in one more breathless kiss. She pressed hands to his chest, mumbling oaths against his mouth, and he pulled away with another near soundless laugh.

"Ah, crap. We got snow in the bed," she whispered, twisting to brush it away before it melted.

With a shrug, Solas rolled away to strip off his soggy clothes. Cloak, coat, soiled tunic. Then breeches. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out his spare set.

Wild coughing behind him stole his attention. He half-turned to see Tir'alas had spun so she faced away. Amused, he watched her peek over her shoulder and blush a furious red. She darted toward the tent-flap with a hurried, "I'll, uh, just get my, uh, pack and change behind the tent."

Feigning confusion, he said, "I thought the Dalish had no nudity taboos?"

Sputtering and turning redder if that was possible, she sidled out of eyeline. "We don't-I mean …. It's different when, ah—" Her words ceased their disjointed flow. She stared for a moment, then said, short and plain, "I'll be right back."

Chuckling and shaking his head, Solas considered just rolling into the furs in just his smalls. But … no. He couldn't trust himself. Not with her so near. So he pulled on the dry clothing with a sigh. Then he slid under the bear pelt that served as his blanket, turning onto one hip.

When she rolled in next to him a few minutes later, his breath hitched as he realized she only wore a linen shift. Her bare legs entwined with his clothed ones with heartstopping litheness. How it stretched his discipline to keep his hands clear until she settled, face tucked against his collarbone.

She muttered, "Stretch out your arm. Your elbow is digging into my ribs."

Obliging, he swallowed as she moved even closer, using his bicep as a pillow. He didn't know what to do with his other arm, so he lay it along his thigh, hand shying away as he touched bare leg. Now _she_ laughed as she reached and pulled that arm around her waist. "There. Just relax."

"Are you sure you're not trying to kill me?" he muttered.

Her one hand rested over his chest for a moment before stealing around his waist. "Well, your heart's still beating, so … no."

"Would I be so easy for you to dispatch?" he teased, muscles indeed going lax now that their embrace became less sexual and more … comfortable.

She turned her face up to fix a reproachful eye on him. "No. 'Dispatching' is never easy."

A thing he knew well. But he beat back that ancient sorrow and said, with laughing lilt, "I won. And would claim my prize."

"I need to stop making bad wagers with you. Blackwall warned me." She sighed in his arms and said, voice softening to a breath no one but he could hear, "Fine. This one might take some time. It's not one that I like remembering. Not that any of them are.

"It's about the first time I murdered. And the second."

He shivered at the deathly cold tone of her voice.

* * *

 **A/N: More of these two blushing nerds. I do so love them both. I hope you're still enjoying this tale. It's been so fun to write and share. If you've the urge, shoot me some feedback. I also love reviews. They are like candy. Delicious candy. :D**


	36. Chapter 36

**(Trigger Warning: Non-graphic depiction of rape.)**

 _He watched, an invisible witness, as the memory unfolded much the same as she'd spoken it._

 _A group of four elvhen children, all maybe a decade old, with one dirty shadow tagging along in their wake. They didn't include her, but still she followed, yearning, hoping. Hiding when they turn to chase her away. She's smaller than the others, perhaps younger, perhaps stunted by the starvation of her earliest years. But her long bones spoke of tallness in the very near future._

 _The bright laughter of the Dalish sons and daughters trickled through the autumn wood, dappling the air in soft motes the same way sunlight does through leaves. It seemed nothing could darken such a fine day._

 _But then a hulking shape leapt out onto the path. A meaty whack of a fist sent one boy headfirst into a tree. The sharp crack of bone filled the air and Solas knew the child had died instantly. The others scattered, crying out in fear. But one, a girl in pastel cotton frock, didn't dodge fast enough. Huge, hairy hands snatched her up by the long hair and dragged her deeper into the forest._

 _While the others had run, one had stayed near, watching from the bole of a gnarled yew, her eyes glinting in shock. She looked on the dead boy and knew sorrow. Ali'falon, who once let her have the rest of his bradh, lay … ruined._

 _A scream of agony split the air and the girl's head snapped up, short locks flying. Ella, who always made trouble for the Lin'alas, but had spun so prettily in the solstice dance. The monster was hurting her._

 _Some rage, some secret inferno seemed to alight in the child's eyes. She crept forward, toward the rising shrieks._

 _In a small clearing, she saw them. The huge thing crouched over the small elven girl, huffing and panting and grunting. Ella only made a broken sound now, her eyes empty of her very soul. In the clearer light, the Lin'alas saw that the monster was just … a human. Round ears and hair everywhere. The first human she'd ever seen._

 _And if it was just a human, it could be killed._

 _She snuck closer and saw the shine of a discarded weapon next to the man. Oh, but he_ stank _the closer she got. Like shit and sweat. Her little hand creeped out and plucked the dagger off the ground._

 _The first stab was luck. It caught the distracted man just under the ribs, puncturing a lung. He let loose a wet, gurgling scream and dropped Ella to the ground. She bounced like a toy. The human swung on his diminutive assailant, but unable to breathe, couldn't do much but back away, tripping on his fallen breeches._

 _With a scream of her own, the Lin'alas charged, dagger held braced against her belly. This time, she deliberated, choosing the spot she'd seen hunters start the gutting of the animals they brought back to camp. But she underestimated the strength it took to do it just like that and so, only half-disemboweled the man. The shock almost wrenched her shoulders out of socket as the human twisted to try to run. Blood and split intestine poured out of the wound. It took the human several seconds of panicked stuffing and flailing before he finally keeled over and died._

 _Clutching the knife to her narrow chest, she panted, exhilarated and full of hate and righteous vengeance against the sins this man had committed against her kind. Not-really-understood sins, but still so heinous._

 _Ella's whimpering breaths drew the girl's attention, and she approached the fallen da'len. Her lovely dress lay split and tattered. Her pale arms like broken ash twigs, strewn this way and that. And everything below the waist …. The Lin'alas looked away, frightened and confused and so very sad._

 _The pretty elf lass would never dance again and, looking into her dead, unblinking eyes, she may not even come back from wherever she'd gone. So, the Lin'alas did the only thing she could think to do. Ella didn't even sigh or shudder as the dagger split her heart. She just … stopped. Ended._

 _Somehow that was better. So much so that the girl let fall a hundred tears. That's how the hunters found her, blood on her hands, sobbing over the dead girl with the gutted human filth nearby. The Keeper, hawk-nosed and old, turned her by the shoulders and said, "You did this, Alas?"_

 _The girl nodded._

 _Adult voices argued over her head, loud but not understood. To Solas, it just sounded like mangled growling. The dream spun on, well past the abbreviated version Tir'alas told him. He could not help but watch._

 _They kept her secluded, alone. In a hutch meant for hares. As though she'd become some rabid animal that snapped at their fingers. She'd killed and that made her more dangerous ten-fold._

 _A woman wailed in the night, "Not my Ella! Not my little hope!"_

 _Over and over again til the girl clapped her hands over her ears to shut it out. Then she shut her eyes so she couldn't see Ali'falon's father by the fire, face slack and empty with grief. The stubble of her freshly shaved head scratched at her fingers._

 _The Keeper approached, still arguing with someone over her shoulder, "She saw and did what had to be done. You cannot deny that the People_ need _that."_

" _The beast is half-feral. We cannot trust her."_

" _She has a place. I see it now."_

" _Where? Who will be hahren to such a creature? None of us! No hunter, no healer, no crafter!"_

" _Trust that I know. Am I not Keeper?"_

 _The crowd quieted before that demanding question. The Keeper nodded, then said, "I will take her far from here. Look for me to return at the next birth-tide moon."_

 _They cried out in dismay, but she sliced a strong hand through the air, silencing the mass. Speaking to the main dissenter, she said, "You are First. Guide them."_

 _The Keeper reached into the cage and picked up the girl not ungently and put her to a hip. The Lin'alas mewled and clung tight, terrified._

 _As the pair strode away from the aravels and watching Dalish, the Keeper whispered, "Forgive us, child. You may not survive the Red Lady, but if you do, know that the People need you. We may never love you, but you are needed."_

 _One more whisper drifted to him before the dream dissolved, making him tremble with equal parts anger and nausea._

" _Lath'din …."_

 _Un-loved._

* * *

It took a few hours after waking to truly shake the vision loose. Solas washed himself from a barrel of melted snow as he willed his mind to quiet, his rage to die.

How far the People had fallen. To call any of their dwindling number _that_. To call any _child_ that.

Worse than mere hate, the word's very nature declared that the one so cursed was _incapable of being loved_.

It sounded like something humans would do. _The People are supposed to be better. We are supposed to be better._

He ran one hand over his face as the thought filled him with regret. He admitted to himself that there had been times when his fellows, his kin had been just as cruel and spiteful.

"I had a dream about you," said a sudden voice at his side. Tir'alas gave him a weak smile, which he returned with heavy heart. He saw her hair had been done up in a complicated sweep of asymmetrical braiding. He liked it very much.

"Oh?" he said, trying for light and not succeeding as much as he'd hoped. He pulled his tunic back over his head and pulled the pendant from beneath to rest where it usually did.

"Yes. You were …." She stopped, looking around in awkward fashion.

He coaxed, "I was …?"

Tir'alas shot a look over to where Cass and Vivienne talked in cool, impersonal tones. The Inquisitor lowered her voice, pitching it just above a whisper, "You … were weeping. Someone had just … died, and you were just … weeping. I never heard anything so … lost before. It was all very vague, but still felt … real."

The skin around his eyes crinkled before he could arrest it, lips pulling back and down in a pained scowl. She'd stolen into his secret heart and filched something precious. The visceral reaction startled him and he blinked to see her looking back at him with worry in her grey eyes.

He shook his head, and said, "Like most, I am not unfamiliar with loss, nor lacking the ability to grieve."

Now she blinked and said, with guilt, "Oh. Ir abelas, Solas."

"No need. Sleeping as we did in such close quarters, sometimes Fade realms overlap. It is not important," he lied. He admonished himself to keep tighter rein from now on when in the Beyond. "To be fair, I also dreamt of you."

Her ears pinked. "Anything you want to share?"

He laughed at the implication and deflected, "If I do, will that blush spread _all_ the way across your face?"

It did, with admirable speed. She frowned and turned away. "You're impossible."

"No, just highly unlikely."

Tir'alas huffed and stamped her feet to shake powdery snow from them. "We'll head out in a few. Head toward Suledin Keep, then back this way toward the east. We haven't seen what's over there yet."

"Ambitious. Lay siege to a heavily guarded fortress, then go exploring for dessert? I admire your confidence," Solas said, with a lifting of his brows. "I will be ready."

She took her leave with nary a word of farewell. And as he watched her ready the mounts out of the corner of his eye, his guts flip-flopped. _Too close_. She might end up seeing without him meaning her to. Yet could he manage banishing her from his thoughts, her memory from his flesh?

His heart shouted a defiant negative.

He whispered under his breath, "Ma Tir'alas, _you are_ not _un-loved!"_

Now if he could only find a safe way to show her without _showing_ her. Everything.

Later, when they found the broken bridge to the east, Tir'alas grinned a feral grin and said, shading her eyes, "Oh, Bull is just gonna _shit_ himself."

He found he could not disagree as he watched two dragons circle over Tevinter ruins. Of which there happened to be three.

* * *

 **A/N: Dreeeeeeam sequence. Lol. Complicated childhoods abound. And how we writers exploit that. Hahaha! Anyway, it's a light chapter but a complete one, I feel. I hope everyone enjoys more of this thing that has eaten my very sooouuuuul. *spooky voice* A shout out to all my Lavellans out there. LAVELLANS UNITE!**


	37. Chapter 37

The rift snapped closed with a _whumph_. Tir'alas, face twisted in agony, fell to her knees, clutching her left hand to her chest. Her fingers spasmed and twitched in the air.

Sliding down next to her, Solas said, "Let me see."

"It-It's fine. Just gimme a minu—"

He snapped, "Lethallan! Let me see it."

Reluctant, she grimaced as she held her hand out for him. Solas took it in his own and set his mind to task.

The mark had widened, a fissure that now spanned her whole palm and started to bleed out the back as well. Solas cursed himself for not paying more attention to it.

Concentrating, he wove the loosening bonds tighter and tighter, until the Anchor quieted and slept. The hole did not seal, but it no longer spilled Fade energies into the air. Turning her hand over, he looked and sighed. The cracks along the back of her hand had not closed completely either. They now appeared as her palm had once, a scar with raw edges.

Irreversible. Even if he found a way to sever her connection to the Anchor. He winced and brought her hand to his lips.

 _Time is slipping away from me._

"This an elfy healing technique?" asked Sera, plopping down next to them. "Kiss it and make it better?"

Solas let the Inquisitor's hand go with a jerk, just as Tir'alas started and pulled it back herself. He looked at her with chagrin, as she did back at him. Then they looked away from each other as they stood.

Tir'alas wiggled her fingers, then said to Sera, dry and sharp, "Whatever works."

"If he kissed my arse, could he make _it_ better? I could do with a bit more bounce." Sera flexed her knees, jiggling her rear assets. "You know wot, nevermind. I got plenty."

Solas sighed in exasperation. "Bitter _and_ crude. What a winning combination."

"S'better than snotty and … and _bald!"_

Tir'alas snorted and nudged Solas with an elbow. "Better add witty to that."

"Oi, so now you're going to pick on me, too?" Anger flushed the archer's features. "Elves, always climbing up each others' arses."

"Whose arse are we climbing up?" said Blackwall, coming up to the group now he'd seen to recapturing their mounts.

Sera snorted. "C'mon, Blackwall. Let's go find some loot. Give these two some room so they can bang the proper bits together and rebuild the Empire. _Elven glory!"_ She shouted that last. It rang through the green forests of the Emerald Graves.

Solas hunched his shoulders at the ill-bred, indelicate rogue's words. "Hopefully, no Freemen heard that. They could surround and ambush us easily."

Tir'alas turned and said, with judicious arched brow, "Mm-hmm, but for the moment, we seem to have a distressing lack of chaperones."

Matching her curling grin with one of his own, he said, "So it seems. Whatever could be on your mind, Inquisitor?"

She took a step toward him, closing the gap. The way she looked at him heated his core to boiling. She leaned and stood on the balls of her feet to plant a soft kiss at his jaw. The sizzle of that sensation traveled the length of his body. His breath hitched as she whispered, "You."

"Me?" he whispered back. "In the middle of this giant-infested wood teeming with hostile enemies, and you think of … me? For shame. Such distraction could cost us in lives."

Giving a chuckle, she replied, "There's time enough between one kill and the next to have certain … thoughts."

"Oh, well, yes, I suppose," he said, flustered. His tongue flexed, trying to find moisture in the suddenly arid cavern of his mouth. "What sorts of thoughts?"

Tir'alas hummed in amusement, then dropped back on her heels. Her left hand came up, curling and uncurling. "My hand feels much better, you know. It makes me wonder, what miracles can those lips do … elsewhere?"

Solas coughed to keep from choking. The air seemed very thin for a moment, before baser instincts surged to the fore.

His fingers stole around her slim waist, finding that part of the small of her back, the one that seemed crafted just for his hand and pulling her into him. "How I would dearly love to show you. Right here. Right now."

She trembled against him, the most delicious feeling yet. And when her head lolled back to offer him her throat, Solas dipped and scraped his teeth along her pulsing carotid. The temptation to just take her swamped his senses, but he drew back before he did more than a playful nip.

That yanked a most interesting sound from her lips, a sort of surprised yip that made him chuckle.

Tir'alas pulled away with a sharp look at him. "Maybe the danger is a lot closer than I realized."

He agreed, with dark smile, "Maybe."

Flushed, flustered, she turned when Blackwall called, "Are you two coming? We got maybe three hours til the next camp on the map."

Beyond him, hidden, Sera muttered something about a bucket of water and dogs.

Solas sighed as they continued on their way, though in contemplating the Inquisitor walking ahead of him, he found he, too, could not keep certain naughty thoughts at bay.

* * *

A few nights later, she slipped out of his arms. If he hadn't been so attuned to her, she might have escaped without even _him_ noticing. A sudden breeze told him she'd left the tent.

Solas waited twenty heartbeats, then rolled out into a crouch. He blinked away disorientation and went to the tent-flap. Peering out between the seams, he saw her rummaging around her packs and things. Blackwall's sawing snores drifted on the night air.

A loud burst of laughter made her jerk her head around and freeze. Solas glanced around for the source and saw Sera sitting with Inquisition soldiers nearby, joking and telling stories with animated and lewd gestures. They did not seem to notice the Inquisitor.

Tir'alas, keeping low to avoid detection, darted out between the tents and out into the night. He soon lost sight of her among the towering trees. Then his gaze refocused and saw her staff, still leaning against some barrels. Why did she leave it?

With a worried frown, he slipped out as well, past the sentries. A touch of magic muffled his steps, and sharpened all of his senses. He tracked her by the pull of the Anchor as he stealthily made his way among the trees.

A shadow ahead of him broke free of a copse, running with light sure steps. A deep intake told him that this was not Tir'alas. The flash of a green hood in the moonlight to his left drew his eye.

Ah, not one, but _two_. Leliana's spies had also noticed their Inquisitor leaving camp.

Solas dropped back so they could advance ahead of him. Keeping them in his line of sight, he paused as they did to consider the end of her trail. _Which way has she gone?_ he could almost hear them think as they looked at one another.

Through silent agreement, the two agents split up, running through the undergrowth in diverging paths. Solas then watched a third shadow drop out of a tree, crouching for a moment where they'd deliberated. His inner senses prickled. The Inquisitor.

He saw the flash of a white canine as she sped off in another direction entirely. Shaking his head in admiration for her cunning, he took off in her shadow, keeping silent and swift as he could.

In the distance, he saw her silhouette at the top of a hill, just for a second before it dropped over the other side. Creeping upon the incline, Solas dropped to all fours so he could peer over. There, not too far away, a lone campfire, small, with one figure sitting near it. He'd never have seen it upon casual inspection, half-hidden among tangles and stumps.

The sound of Tir'alas's voice made him cock his head to hear better—

"Hail, the camp," she called, soft and light, voice made high and tremulous.

The man, the _elf_ started and stood, crouched in defense. "Who calls?" Dalish, by his garments.

Solas could just make out the dark vallaslin on that other's face.

Sounding breathy and relieved, Tir'alas took a step into the firelight, saying with a thicker accent than Solas had ever heard fall from her lips, "Oh, thank the Creators. It is good to see another of the People."

Put off-balance, the male elf frowned and said, "On nydha, little one. How came you here?"

She shuffled, as though unsure. "I … I am lost, l-lethallin. May I impose upon your hospitality?"

With a wary look around, the elf stared hard, noting her humble garb, her one plain knife. He relaxed and gestured that she enter his camp. He said, switching to the bastardized elvhen the Dalish used, " _Be welcome to the warmth of my fire, sister."_

" _My thanks,"_ she returned in similar fashion. Plopping onto the ground near the male, she flailed her hands with an exasperated, " _I don't know how I get myself into these messes."_

With an amused rumble, that other Dalish said, " _Where are you from, little one?"_

" _Oh! Forgive my rudeness. I'm of the Ghilain, up north. My name is Asibelavahn."_ The lies rolled so easily off her tongue.

"' _She of many questions,' hmm? I am of the Sabrae, myself."_

" _Aren't they roving Ferelden this time of year?"_ She smiled at him, guileless and open.

" _Yes. I am a long way from home, as are you. How strange that two strangers from faraway lands should meet in the middle of this hallowed wood."_ He scooted closer to her with every word.

" _Not that strange. I came to see Firewater Garden. Didn't you? I thought lots of elves made this pilgrimage. But then a giant chased me and now I don't know where I am,"_ she said, turning to the male with a simpering pout. Solas's guts writhed into knots as she leaned toward this other, this man. She arched her back so her breasts thrust forward, prominently.

Only knowing some deception must be afoot kept him from just spinning away and stomping back to camp. It hurt him to see her using base seduction, using her body as bait.

" _Let us look at your map, then,"_ the Sabrae said, taking the liberty of putting his arm around her shoulders.

Solas chewed his lip bloody as she pulled out her map and unfolded it, pointing out where she'd 'been chased away' and where she'd wanted to go. During her blithe and vacuous ramblings, the male had maneuvered her into his lap, murmuring and laughing inches away from her ear. Solas hated how she just let him do that.

The Sabrae laughed and said, " _You are_ very _lost, little Curiosity. Do not fear, though, for I can show you the way back in the morning."_

She acted the coquette, turning her face toward his with a shy smile. " _You'd do that for me, my kind stranger?"_

He said, " _We are kin, are we not? I have been there many times."_

Tir'alas giggled as he tightened his grip around her waist. " _Oh? You must be so … experienced."_

The Sabrae used one hand to move her hair to the side, and nuzzled her neck. " _I am. I can show you the Gardens, Elgar'nan's Bastion …. We can even go inside Din'an Hanin, if you like."_

She gasped, her lips so close to his that there scarcely seemed air enough for the both of them. " _The tomb of the Emerald Knights? Is it not forbidden to do that?"_

" _Forbidden?'_ he scoffed, devious smile playing about on his mouth. " _What use do a bunch of long dead fools have for their treasures?"_

Tir'alas's hands twitched, though the vapid smile never left her face. She shifted in his lap, drawing an aroused gasp from the Sabrae. Pouring avarice into her tone, she said, " _What sorts of treasures?"_

" _Oh, wonders, little one. Shining, glittering in the dust. Holding great value in every market."_

" _Markets?"_ she prompted, fingers tracing over the skin of his throat.

" _Denerim. Val Royeaux. The Nevarrans. Even the Alamarri. You'd be surpr_ — _"_

" _Venatori?"_ she breathed. The Sabrae froze. She continued, " _Did you sell any of these wonders to the Venatori by the ridge? Did you tell them where to find more, Rogalin?"_

Shocked, the Sabrae tried to move, but her sudden vicious grin pinned him. He swallowed, face plastered with guilt, and stammered, " _Ven-Venatori? What ar_ — _"_

And he couldn't continue, for a knife suddenly stuck from his throat. Solas blinked. He hadn't even seen Tir'alas reach for it, yet there it hung. In one side and out the other.

Tir'alas shifted away, cold and impersonal. " _Idiot."_

Then she twisted the blade and yanked it out through the front of the man's throat. He toppled in a fountain of blood. She spun away so none of it would land on her. Wiping the knife off on his tunic, she then stood straight and fished out a crumpled something from her belt-pouch. She smoothed out the bit of hide on a nearby stump, then stalked a step back over by the corpse.

With a heave and a grunt, she turned Rogalin over and studied him for a moment. Her face emptied of everything but a sort of hollow sickness. Then her right palm came down and dipped into the blood that still oozed from his neck. She lingered, coating it thoroughly. Then she intoned, "Lin'sul'lin."

Blood for blood.

Solas shivered as that red, red hand swept around and stamped the hide, right over where Solas _knew_ must be inscribed the likeness of Rogalin of the Sabrae.

In the tall grasses to his right, he heard a strangled gasp. He turned his head to just see someone in a green hood go sprinting off over the knoll.

* * *

 **A** **/N: Say whaaaaaaaaaat! Lol. Uh oh. Tir'alas is found out. Witnesses and everything. Cliffhangers and such. Oh, I love update day so much. Especially when it gets to the revelatory bits. Anyway, let me know if you like where it's going so far. I having a hell of a time writing it! Till next time. Cheers!**


	38. Chapter 38

_One of the agents._

Before he even thought to do so, he bounded after them, soundless and swift. Magic made fleet his feet and he caught up within a few hundred feet. The spy looked back at him over her shoulder and terror took root in her eyes.

He concentrated and dropped _silence_ in a pool around them. Solas leapt and took her down under his weight. His one arm went around her throat and his other hand over her mouth to cut off any cries. His spell faded, letting in the chirp of crickets and other animal noises.

Not ten feet away, the other agent paced, looking around. For his partner, no doubt. After a few minutes, the human wandered away, calling soft bird whistles into the dark.

The spy in his arms struggled, but he forced her into stillness. Biting his inner cheek, Solas pondered. If he let her go, she'd report this to Leliana. And he could only imagine what the Spymaster would do then.

It would tear the Inquisition apart.

There was really only one option. Solas whispered into the spy's ear, "I'm sorry."

Fast. Painless. One sharp crack and the agent went limp. Dead.

Sorrow touched him as he let her down onto the ground. Splashing behind him told him that Tir'alas must be washing the blood from her hands in the Rush of Sighs. Would that _he_ could so easily.

He made for camp as fast as he dared and snuck back into his tent, arranging himself so it seemed he never moved. Then he closed his eyes.

She slid in soon after, sighing as her head rested once more on his arm. He could tell from the sound of her breathing that she faced away from him. His eyes cracked open to see the back of her head. Her hair wafted to and fro in the wake of his breath.

Her body stood a little away from his, the line of her back rigid and tense. Her cheek felt hot on his arm. And though he didn't doubt she'd scrubbed and scrubbed, blood still tainted her scent. Blood and self-loathing. He sensed that if not to keep up her deception, she'd not have come back to his tent, not lain with him as though nothing ugly had happened.

Not inflicted him with her foul presence.

The idea of it pricked him at the heart.

Solas shifted, keeping his moves slow and languid. Natural. His free arm went around her waist and pulled her close. She jerked in surprise, then little by little, relaxed against him. A trail of something wet dripped through his tunic, and ran down the inside of his bicep. The sharp tang of saltwater filled the air.

He moved her hair out of his face and put lips to the back of her neck, nuzzling close with a weary sigh.

The two liars slept.

* * *

The long blade glittered in the sun streaming through the trees as she swung the staff in a circle over her head. Feints and lunges intermixed with dodges followed. Then around the back, then figure eights as she advanced. With a deft little flick at the end that would have split any enemy in front of her from crotch to neck at full speed.

The sheen of sweat on her bare limbs and neck told the tale of labor. Even as she moved in slow and deliberate forms, Solas saw the weight of effort pulling at her slender frame. The grimace of concentration, the dissatisfied storm of her eyes.

But this time she doesn't fling the weapon from her. She sets it butt down before her toe with a soft click.

"You still think like a rogue," he called from where he watched. "And while it serves you well to flank and feint and dodge, your mind is too static. It whispers weight, momentum, resistance … _limitation_."

Tir'alas broke from her rigid end-stance and leaned on the staff with a huffed laugh, the wind catching in her weary throat. "Well, hahren. If you've a better idea on how I get some measure of skill with this blasted thing, then by all means …." She gestured before her.

With a short chuckle, Solas took up his own staff and stalked to meet her in the practice ring. He felt the sizzle of anticipation as he readied himself. His left foot carried far forward and bent at the knee. The staff drew back so it lay along the back of his right arm, while his left swept toward her, palm out. He said, "Your martial mastery is impressive, but you stand closer than you need to. Magic as an afterthought, instead of intrinsic."

She smiled and copied his stance, the lines of her body a smooth and aggressive threat. "Why have a blade and not poke them?"

"Why indeed? When you can use the wind to _cut_ — _!"_ With a sweeping swing, he sent a hard breeze at her. At the last second, she rolled to the side, but not before the magic-enhanced zephyr slashed a line through her shirt.

She gaped and spent a moment holding her side, looking at the uncut skin there. Then her gaze snapped up to his and hardened. Her mouth stretched into a savage smirk, full of battlejoy.

With a forward thrust, Tir'alas sent a lightning bolt his way. He spun his staff before it, collecting its energies and diverting them to the ground. There they sped back toward her, in the form of a ground-shaking tremor.

The earth rumbled and she danced upon it to keep her feet, leaping toward him with blade leading. A barrier sprang up over her skin.

Solas called on rift energies and sent her tumbling past him through the air. Yanked her right out of her trajectory. He felt her pull on the Fade, forming it into a buffer between her and the ground. She slid to an easy stop, hand to ground for balance.

Nodding approval, he waited.

He didn't have to wait for long. Tir'alas lunged forward, shaping that buffer into something that would catapult her toward him. Solas dispelled her barrier. Her staff-blade speared to try to take him in the gut, but he met it with a simple full spin, the long body of his staff pushing the lethal point away. The shock of the two staves meeting ran up and into his hands, vibrating.

As her body flew by, Solas reached out with one palm and touched her midriff, sending a magical push through the point of contact. Tir'alas gave a grunt as she suddenly flew sideways.

Recovering with lightning reflexes, she twisted midair. Her staff went flying out of her hands as she let go of it to grasp at the ground, ending up more or less on all fours. For a moment as she stared at him from her abasement, she bristled, mantling like a raptor. But then she stood on her feet and bounced, wild grin plastered to her face. "You've got to teach me that."

Solas rubbed the back of his neck, a little _warm_ under her frank and admiring gaze. He teased, "I _have_ been trying."

"With words, Solas. With an endless shower of words. _Theory_ ," she almost spat that last. "I've never _seen_ it before. You don't do that when we're all out fighting." She shot him a look of reproach.

He cleared his throat and said, "We rarely encounter things that need to be dealt with that way. Group tactics are different."

Her face glowed with enthusiasm. "What's so different?"

Solas puzzled that over for a second, then laughed. "Still thinking like a rogue. You would attack one target at a time, yes? Seek out vulnerabilities and press until that one falls. Then on to the next."

"Yes?" she said, brows beetling.

"Magecraft is more about controlling the battlefield, cutting groups into smaller units with firewalls and runes. Giving aid to warriors who manage the ways through the maze we build. However, once in awhile, we face a single formidable enemy," he said, nodding toward her and continued, "and then we must apply … finesse."

Tir'alas picked up her staff and walked toward him, stopping at his side to bump his elbow with hers. "'Formidable.' Sure. As if you didn't just plant my ass in the dirt without breaking a sweat."

"A mere side benefit of a lifetime of arcane study," demurred he. He turned and gestured toward where the cookpot waited, steaming away to spice the air with the scent of their midday meal. The others, who'd gone for more firewood, would probably return soon.

Tir'alas nodded and together they started to walk that way. Solas continued, a little disheartened, "You … really didn't like my lectures?"

She laughed. "Oh, hahren. I'd not meant to hurt your feelings. I _liked_ hearing you talk, but the content and context sometimes escaped me. To be honest, there are times when you are as inscrutable and vague as Cole."

Solas frowned. "You _can_ ask questions, you know."

The Inquisitor shrugged. "I do know. But you seemed very … occupied with the teaching. I didn't want to interrupt."

"As Varric would say, 'Bullshit.' You _never_ shy from interrupting, lethallan."

Playful, she eyed him sidelong. "Huh, you're right. Well, it _must_ have been your voice then."

Solas looked back at her with reproach. "If you think flattery will make me forget that you seem to have been ignoring me the whole time I was instructing you-"

"Shall I go on about your eyes then? Your nibble-worthy shoulders? Your ars—"

He stopped in his tracks, with a sharp, "Lethallan!"

"Well, _something_ must work!" she shot back over her shoulder. Then the light in her eyes grew dangerous and sly. And the tiniest bit brittle. And she sidled near him to say in low tones, "Or would you like me to beg, Solas? For forgiveness? On my knees?"

His mouth dried as he pictured this. Perhaps no begging, but on her knees …. _That_ stirred the ravenous desire within. He wrenched his mind to other matters before blood had a chance to start rushing south.

Solas said, standing away with a hint of disapproval, "A simple apology would suffice."

"Aw, but that's no fun." She pouted, taking another step into his personal space. Lifting her mouth to his ear, she whispered, "You could take me to task, hahren."

"Tir'al—"

"Light spanking followed by a stern lecture? While I sit on your lap, perha—?"

The image of her squirming on doomed Rogalin's lap flashed before his eyes, and his lips twisted before he could stop them. He turned his face away from her, suddenly angry.

He felt Tir'alas pull away from him. "Sola—?"

"Is this all a game … to you?" demanded he, shocking himself with the depth of bitterness that tinged those words.

His eyes found her looking back at him with confusion and growing shame. Her lips shaped, "What? No—!"

"As much as I enjoy the novelty of young ladies throwing themselves at me," he started, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt at that moment. And failing. "I do not like being manipulated."

She stammered, "I was only—I didn't mean—"

"Do not … _trifle_ with me, lethallan," Solas said, soft. He looked away once more. "We are not _all_ made to be flighty, fickle things. This … artificial pageantry of loveplay is degrading. For me … and for you."

Her feet shuffled in his peripheral vision. When he ventured a glance up, she stood with head bowed. The curtain of her hair hid her face, but not the deep red flush at the tip of her ears.

He said, into the tense silence, "As I would not have you think me so easily swayed by … _enticement,_ I do not want you to think you _must_ entice me. Not for my favor, and not for my instruction. You are better than that."

To his troubled surprise, she bent at the waist in a deep bow. She whispered, in halting formal Elvhen, " _Ir abelas, hahren_. _You are right._ _I am an unworthy student. I swear to learn all you deign to teach. Dirtha'vhen'an."_

Shocked, he watched her spin on her heel and walk away. That last word rang in his ears. Dirtha'vhen'an. _The unbreakable vow._

She did not come to his tent that night. He stared at the spot she'd taken for her own and shivered at the cold and empty wind that seemed to blow through him.

Perhaps, for her, it had only been momentary infatuation after all.

* * *

 **A/N: Maker, nuoooooooooh! Why can't my babies just be happy forever!? Why do they insist on cutting themselves open and bleeding everywhere? *sigh* So the angst train arrives, right on schedule. Jeez, at this rate, will these two nerds ever bone? (I know, but I'm not telling. *cheeky grin*) So anyway, feel free to comment or critique if you like. Cheers!**


	39. Chapter 39

_The tickle of lucid dreaming on the edge of his senses drew his attention. He'd just finished touching the memory of an Emerald Knight when he heard it. He followed the thin thread to a dark place, the light of a single candle right in the center._

 _He knew it would be her, but he didn't expect to see himself, face cold and stern, sitting in his chair. The one in far Skyhold. Tir'alas stalked around the edge of the stage, uncertainty in every step._

 _Solas kept himself cloaked in the dark, curious despite himself._

 _Steeling herself, Tir'alas approached that other Solas. "Savhalla, Solas."_

 _The vision spoke, with patronizing smile, "Da'len."_

 _She winced, then waved the dream back to the beginning. She looked down at that other him and said, "I know you're mad. I just-I just wanted to say I'm sorry … again."_

 _The Fade construct frowned and steepled his hands before his face, crossing ankle over knee. "You say it so often I wonder if you really mean it. Saying sorry never made anything else right. Did it?"_

 _Tir'alas shrank into herself. She leaned on the desk that suddenly popped into being. "He wouldn't know to say that last part, but no, it never did. Does."_

 _She waved again and the scene reset. Turning to her created version of Solas, she said, "Look, Solas. I … I know I'm a pain in the ass and I am not …_ good … _." Her voice dropped for a second of dark introspection, then continued, "Or nice or even very pretty, but I … I …."_

 _Solas, the real Solas, strained to listen for her next words, heart weak and aching under his breastbone._

 _She whispered, "I never met anyone like you. You make me feel …. I think I-I might_ — _" Then she scrubbed at her eyes with one hand and growled. "Ugh, that's stupid. I'm stupid."_

 _The Solas in the chair reached out with one hand and turned her chin toward him. It leaned in and kissed her with heartstopping tenderness. Solas, from where he watched, touched his own lips, feeling the burn there, the tingle of blood lit aflame. She dreamed with such clarity that it affected him, even though he stood outside it. A scent wafted to his nose, something familiar and alien all at once._

 _Woodsy. Masculine._

 _Tir'alas moaned and said, "How do you always manage to smell so good?"_

 _A giddy and embarrassed laugh tried to break free. He stifled it with effort. His other self started to get … handsy, pulling at her garments and unbraiding her hair. Those illusory fingers thrust into that dark cloud so they could pull her in for another deep, greedy tongue-tangle._

 _Flushing, Solas thought perhaps he should go. A simple fantasy and no more, though he itched with envy. He started to turn when his twin said_ —

" _I_ do _think you're stupid. Foolish, foolish child. A waste of my time. Yearning for something not meant for you. Love? You barely even know what that is," the construct said, malice curling in its tone. "I could never love a killer like you. You have an ugly twist in your soul."_

 _A heartbeat of fear and then Solas whipped back around to see Tir'alas shoving the creature away to arm's length. She rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, fuck off. You're not him."_

 _The desire demon's guise slipped away. It-no,_ he _laughed and reached for her again, pressing his whole body to hers, grinding against her, grotesque pierced erection rubbing her inner thighs. "No, but I could be. For you. He will never love you like I can. Or know how much you long to be touched. So much so your skin_ screams _with it."_

 _With that, the handsome demon ran his taloned hand down her cheek, soft, sweet, gentle. And, for one horrible, enduring moment, she leaned into the affectionate gesture, lip caught in her teeth._

 _Then, she shook her head and glared at him. "Go away or I'll kill you. I don't want to, because he has a little bit of a soft spot for you spirits. But I will." She flared the Anchor, green light sparking._

 _Giving another bell-like laugh, the desire demon retreated, flying away into the darkness past the dream._

 _Tir'alas huffed and ran her hands through her locks of floating black hair. It wafted as though underwater, soft undulations of ebony waves._

 _Touched by her mercy, he pondered it all._

 _Impressive. She'd never be I've'an'virelan, a Fade Walker, but the potential existed for her to become quite skilled at shaping dreams. Solas watched as she reconstructed the scenario with patience and thoroughness. Once again, another him sat while the Inquisitor tried over and over to work out what she wanted to say to him in real life._

 _So … not a frivolous thing for her either. How that reassurance warmed him from head to toe. Now if he could only break through her insecurities to hear it from her himself._

 _The actual him._

* * *

Yet still she did not come to his tent.

During the day, she practiced with him, impressing him all over again with her reforged zeal. But no laugh or smile broke through her stony countenance. His words of praise for her hard work met only with a nod of acknowledgement. She seemed to retreat inside herself, and he could not draw her out no matter how hard he tried.

She always stood just out of arms' length, so their customary casual touching could not happen. He hadn't realized how often it did until they no longer did it. And lamented the loss. Blackwall and Sera seemed to not notice at all.

Solas truly started to fret.

They returned to Skyhold as summer waned, pounding along thoroughfares that had seen more traffic this year than the last. Slowly but surely, the thin trickle of commerce had fattened on roads made safer by the Inquisition.

They slowed their mounts to a walk as the gate loomed ahead. Behind him, he heard Blackwall and the Inquisitor speaking—

"—fast reaching the limit of how far we can go west in a single campaign season," she was saying.

"I hear you, Inquisitor. Skyhold has a tight leash on us. Since we have to return every so often." The Warden hummed in deep thought. "We need a … forward base. Something like a second Skyhold in western Orlais."

Tir'alas nodded. "My thoughts exactly. If we want to campaign at all next year."

"I'll talk to Cullen about it. Or … or Josie," the man said, tone warming. "I … I mean Lady Montilyet."

Sera gave a little laugh from where she rode at the rear. "Miss Fussy-breeches, eh? She's cute. But too many layers. I like … easy access."

Blackwall groaned. "Sera."

"'M just teasin', you big hairy git. You should see him 'round her, Allie. Gets all pink and stuttery. It's adorable _and_ sickening."

Solas could only imagine the mortification on the man's face.

Tir'alas didn't speak for a while, but then she said, dry as though commenting on the weather, "Sera, didn't we see Josephine in the garden that one time? She seemed quite taken by the crystal grace we planted there."

Sera, voice sharp, said, "So, nobs like flowers. S'like sayin' the sky is blue. 'Cept for the greeny bits. What's your point? Who cares about what some ' _lady'_ does wiv some schewpid plants—?"

The apostate could almost hear the glare that the Inquisitor sent the blond's way. He smiled. But would not let himself chuckle. To preserve Blackwall's dignity, he pretended to be struck suddenly deaf.

"Oh," said Sera. Then in a louder voice, "Yeah. Never seen nothin' like how she stuck her whole face in there, sniffing great big sniffs. I thought she was gonna stuff them up her nose, she was so e-nam-or- _ed._ That's the word, right? Allie?"

Tir'alas sighed, with a touch of exasperation for Sera's utter lack of subtlety. "Yes, Sera. That's the word. Blackwall, would you please take the mounts to the Horsemaster?"

"Yes, Inquisitor," he replied, as they stopped in Skyhold's courtyard. Solas slipped off his horse and handed the reins to the Warden, who seemed distracted by deep thought. Giving a silent little huff of amusement, Solas turned to follow the Inquisitor and Sera up the stone steps leading to the great hall.

"Smooth, Sera. Smooth," she said, flat.

"Wot? He got the message, d'int he?" Sera flounced away toward the tavern, tossing over her shoulder, "He's Blackwall. _Brain_ like a wall, sometimes. Can't beat around the bush with him. Should've just laid it out plain and simple. 'Give'er some posies, you silly arse!'"

Tir'alas sighed again as she continued up the steps. Solas kept his distance behind her, forcing his tired legs to move. He watched her braided head dip to nod to people who called to her. In his mind, he tried out possible ways to speak to her, to engage her long enough to … to ….

"Sticks!" regaled Varric, from his usual spot by the hearth closest to the doors. His smile, wide and genuine, faltered a little. "Why the long face, my friend?" His gaze ticked over to Solas for a second.

"Just … tired. The ride was long," she answered.

"Well, guess what finally arrived!" the dwarf proclaimed, rubbing his hands together. He picked up a box on a nearby table and shoved it in her hands. "Go on. Open it! Open it!"

Solas realized he'd paused then and continued on toward the rotunda door, giving them a wide berth. Though he had to admit to himself his steps _might_ be much slower than his usual sure, efficient stride.

Her profile twitched into a half-smirk at the Varric's enthusiasm. "Is it my birthday?"

"You'd think _you'd_ know. But seeing as you never deigned to tell us …," Varric coaxed, hold a hand out. His brows waggled, then fell. "No? No answer forthcoming from our dreadfully mysterious Herald of Andraste, eh? Disappointing. Ah, well, let's just call it an early Satinalia present then."

"Shouldn't I have to wait the half year then?" she said, a teasing tone in her voice. A gladness touched Solas to hear it.

"Just open it already," Varric grumbled, feigning impatience with her. The twinkle in his eye belied the frown on his lips.

Giving the dwarf one more arch look, she opened the box. Her hand hesitated over whatever lay inside, then lifted out a contraption made of leather and lenses. She gasped, expression shifting to one deeply touched. "Is this what I think it is?"

Rocking on his heels, Varric looked oh so smug. "Yep."

With a sudden eagerness, Tir'alas dropped the box and pulled the goggle mask over her head, exclaiming wordlessly in delight. Every head in the hall turned to her. "These are amazing, Varric!"

Her head turned this way and that. Solas just glimpsed owlishly huge eyes behind glass.

"Wait. Look here," said Varric, reaching up to fiddle with some of the longer arms flanking the sides of the device. They slid down to add another layer of lens. "These make the magnification stronger. Different filters to block certain parts of the light spectrum."

She seemed to vibrate with excitement, running her fingers around where the edges rested on her cheeks. "Is this hardened rubber-tree sap?"

"Gaskets. We call them gaskets. Well, engineers and miners do. Lot of toxic gases in mines. So they make special masks with this stuff to seal in a bit of breathable air when you close the side vents. Works a hell of a lot better than wax."

Aware his hand had rested on the door to his sanctuary for quite some time now, Solas still couldn't help looking on, captivated by her excited little shuffle.

"Oh, Varric! They're wonderful!" she exclaimed, lunging toward the dwarf to wrap her arms around him. She hunched awkwardly to do so, then pulled the mask up to plant a huge, wet kiss on Varric's cheek. "Thank you. I'm going to go try them out."

Ignoring all the courtiers and hangers-on, she near danced up the hall, pausing to peer and poke at things. More muffled cries and gasps of wonder came out of her mouth. Then she slipped through the door to her quarters. The bang of it closing broke him out of his reverie.

A chuckle from his left pulled his gaze around to see Varric, looking a little stunned, hand to kissed cheek. He looked a little flushed, but when his eyes slid over to Solas, his smirk was anything _but_ abashed. "Jealous?"

Solas returned that smirk with a soft, wistful one of his own. "Yes, actually."

As though taken aback by the bald confession, Varric blinked. He shrugged and deflected, "Well, forget it. You had your chance with me."

Giving a sarcastic snort, Solas pushed the door open finally. "Really? Whatever shall I do? Mother so had her heart set on a spring wedding."

Whooping with laughter himself, Varric waved him off, clutching his sides.

Solas walked into his rotunda with a deep and heavy sigh. The musk of the books above, stone dust, and the faint solvent smell of the paint he used in his frescoes greeted him like an old friend. Strange how such a place, built by human hands, could very nearly feel like home. And not just because of the growing magic under his feet.

His travel things found their customary perches on hooks, or in chests. Then he sat in his chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. A certain reticence kept him from seeking a bath to wash the road from his skin just yet. Exhaustion crept in around the edges and he knew no more.

An indeterminate time later, Solas rose out of slumber to the smell of something … interesting close at hand. One eye cracked open to see a mug on his desk, steaming. Solas frowned. Surely everyone knew by now how he detested tea. Many jokes had been made at his expense for it.

Yet … it didn't smell like tea.

With a cautious hand, he reached out and picked up the mug. The dark liquid inside sloshed, but defied identification by eye alone. He brought it to his lips and sipped.

At first draught, he stilled, shocked at the sweet, smooth flavor. His tongue swirled the drink around, separating the different ingredients. Chocolate, milk, vanilla. Such simplicity to make something this … grand. Wondrous.

He took another eager sip of the hot beverage, amazed. It coasted around his mouth and warmed him all the way down to the bone with every swallow. A languid smile found his lips and he settled back to fully enjoy the drink.

A thought occurred to him and he peered around his desk for a note. All the other random foodstuffs she'd dropped on his desk had notes attached. Solas shuffled through the papers, growing increasingly anxious as not a single scrawled memo greeted his eye.

Perhaps this … hot chocolate was an olive branch. A sign of Tir'alas opening up and reachi—

"It's quite good, isn't it?" said Dorian, from above.

Solas's gaze drew up to see the Tevinter leaning over the balustrade, a near identical mug in his hand. It mocked him. Clearing his throat, he said, "It … is."

"Welcome back, by the way." Dorian drank, humming in almost obscene enjoyment. Then the man seemed to notice how Solas stared at the mug in Dorian's hand. He lifted it. "Oh. The kitchens made it for those poor orphans. You just missed our Inquisitor's handmaiden, I forget her name, coming through with a big tray of them. On her way to serve some visiting dignitaries, I think. I had to be quite cunning to snag one."

He twiddled the fingers of one hand, meaning he'd stolen it with a spell.

That didn't explain why _Solas_ had one. He scowled into his own mug. Then shot a questioning look to Dorian.

The Tevinter smirked. "She probably thought you were one of those orphans, what with the bald head. Looking so darling there, napping."

Solas set it down, mood too soured to even savor its sweetness. He stood. "I'm going for a bath."

Dorian waved him off, mustache deep in the mug again. Then, he called, "Oh, and I found some manuscripts you might find intriguing. Talk later? You know how I love a good fight about history."

The apostate nodded and left, heading straight for the communal baths. Thankfully empty. As he lay back in the lukewarm water, he sighed and put a hand over his eyes. The soothing lap of the water against his ribs helped soften the sting of disappointment. He admonished himself for his rather ludicrous assumption.

 _Her world does not revolve around you, you arrogant thing._ That made him frown as he thought of how quickly she had snuck into the center of _his_ world. He rubbed at his aching sternum.

 _This is a good thing. She'll keep her distance. You'll keep yours. The ardor will cool, even if the love never flees. You've always been good at self-denial._

… _Liar._

* * *

 ** _A/N: Sorry for the delay. All kinds of busy on this end. Busy busy busy. So, more Solas being a silly butt. Is it awful that I love to torment him? Or, um, sorta kinda ... just. Take that, you egg! lol. Anyway, comments and reviews and critiques are, as ever, welcome._**


	40. Chapter 40

She bent her will and the world … responded. He could feel her pulling the Fade through and transmuting it to suit her purposes. Ice grew all over her chest and shoulders, creating an elemental armor.

"Good. Again," he said. "This go around use the added dimension of time to make it instant. Snap it into place. You won't have a free moment in battle to dawdle."

Tir'alas nodded, dispelling her magic. The ice armor dissolved and reformed with superb quickness. Not as 'instant' as he'd like, but much faster. She seemed to notice this as well and did it five more times until Solas nodded with approval.

He smiled and leaned on his staff, tucking the bottom of one foot against the inside of his other knee. "Now, show me the whole sequence."

She gave a tap of her own staff on the ground, then swept into the ready stance. With an exhale, she burst into motion. Barrier, ice armor dropped into place within seconds. Then, she went on the offensive, lightning crackling through the air to strike a dummy on the other side of this 'arena.' A series of immolates followed, until the thing _exploded!_

Sheltering his face from flying hay and splinters, Solas then stood straight, head lifting. Chest swelling with pride, he turned a pleased grin on Tir'alas. "Splendid."

"I'll say," muttered Varric, from where he watched. "I'd hate to be that dummy."

"I liked it better when she just stabbed things," said Sera, next to the dwarf. Unease and awe flickered in her eyes.

"Magic still unnerves you?" Vivienne gave the blond a condescending look. "One would think you'd be used to it by now."

"No one should be able to explode things wiv a stick. Ain't natural. There's no getting used to what ain't natural." Her accent turned the hateful 'ain't' into 'ay-int.'

Solas's mouth twisted. How tempting to tell her just how wrong her opinion was. Nothing _more_ natural than magic existed. He went with wry, "Technically, she used her will to 'explode' the dummy."

Sera looked a little wan as she retorted, "Mages blow things up wiv their brains. That's _soo_ much better."

"I must say, Solas. I had my doubts, but it seems you make a fine instructor," said Vivienne. "Her talents are fast shaping into … adequacy."

With sardonic nod, Solas couldn't resist the barb, "Would that others had such fair luck."

He just caught the spike of dejection in Tir'alas's expression just out of the corner of his eye before it disappeared under that awful blankness again. Then he realized how it sounded, its implication, and a pain flared through his chest.

Even Vivienne, notorious for callousness, seemed a little taken aback. She looked over to the Inquisitor for a moment, as though waiting for bloody reprisal from that quarter. When none came, she said, to Solas, "With a tongue so sharp, one should be wary of cutting oneself with it."

So he did, and also cut someone not intended as the target. He turned to the Inquisitor to try to find the means to apologize when she waved it off and brushed past him, gesturing that Vivienne lead her to the next round of instruction.

Solas bit his lip as he watched her walk away. Cassandra appeared to hand her some missives, then Leliana called from the rookery. Tir'alas called back that she'd meet her there soon. When they'd disappeared into the great hall, he could make out Cullen, voice low but urgent.

It tore into him. She had enough on her plate without being made to feel … deficient. That last flippant remark negated all his praise, reduced it to lip service. Or worse, condescension. He'd not only shamed her, he'd done it in front of her people. Her … friends.

"That wasn't very nice, Chuckles," said Varric, reprimanding. Solas blinked and saw everyone had left, only he and the dwarf remained in the courtyard. "In fact, it was downright mean."

Varric shook his head, and walked toward the great hall. Solas was left looking after them all, cold inside. He determined to apologize, as soon as she … let him.

* * *

She remained closeted with her advisors for many hours, well past nightfall. The hall had emptied, even Varric retired from writing for the night. Solas was glad for it, for the many dirty looks the dwarf had thrown his way only exacerbated the guilt that writhed in his guts.

He waited by the hearth, gaze trained on the door to Josephine's office. The cold stone he leaned on dug into his shoulder-blades a little, but he felt that should he move and take his eyes off that closed portal, the moment might escape him.

Sudden movement caught his eye. The door opened and he stood a little straighter, alert. Leliana came out first, scowl on her face as she looked at reports in her hands. She called farewells to the ones who came out behind her as she moved directly across the corridor and into the other door that went upstairs.

Tir'alas and Cullen talked in low tones as they exited out into the hall. Her hands swept through the air in animated emphasis. Cullen responded in kind, body angled toward her. Intent on whatever point she happened to be making, she didn't seem to notice the soft smile that played around the Commander's mouth as he looked down at the top of her head.

That smile wrenched at something deep in Solas. Something bitter and a touch selfish.

Cullen's smile disappeared as he started to sway on his feet. He faltered. That drew Tir'alas's attention and she stopped, hands going out to brace him up. "Cullen?"

The Commander's fingers went up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "I-I'm fine. Just a-a headache."

Solas wondered if the same excuse had rung just as false when _he'd_ said it. Cullen stood straight, though his face blanched and sweat beads popped out all over his forehead.

"C'mon. Let's get you to your bunk. _Why_ you have to sleep in the top of a damn tower," she said, her hand on the Commander's elbow to keep him steady. They started toward Solas, showing Tir'alas's face fully to him. The naked concern there made the apostate's guts flip.

"Commander, do you require assistance?" asked Solas, pulling away from the wall.

"No. No. I'm alright. Just exhausted," Cullen demurred, with a wave of one gloved hand. He turned to Tir'alas and said, "No, really. I'm fine. You don't have to—"

"Just keep moving," she interrupted, with a twisting frown. No arguing with that tone.

Cullen huffed and walked, the Inquisitor right at his side. As they swept past Solas, her stormy eyes cut right for just a second, catching his before flicking away. Then they'd gone, presumably through the rotunda and out the exterior door. He waited several seconds, only stirring when he heard that other portal bang shut.

Solas took a deep breath and retreated to the rotunda.

* * *

"So, what's the prognosis?" asked Solas, moving to stand at the Inquisitor's right.

She started and shot him an odd look. The bags under her eyes bespoke little sleep. "What?"

"The Commander. He is still ill, is he not?" Solas tried not to feel the surge of elation at being in her company. This the first he'd seen of her in nearly a week. She'd scooted down to the garden for some cuttings and, drawn into her wake, he'd followed. He continued, "Have you determined the cause?"

Her expression became hooded. Suspicious. Darted around to all the people in the garden with them, then back at him with pointed wariness. His brows shot up in surprise and he took a step back. Tir'alas's mouth smoothed, softened as she saw his reaction. She turned back to the plant in her hands. "Cullen will recover."

That short answer, lacking in any sort of answer to his question, made him feel suddenly out of place. Displaced even more than usual. It reminded him of that horrible moment when he'd woken up in this age. The sick, falling sensation that took him then shocked him. He asked, quiet so others could not hear, "Can we …. Can we not even _speak_ to one another any more?"

Her hands froze, then she said, "I will return to our lessons soon, hahren. We can speak then."

Solas's fingers wrung behind his back. He fought hard not to show his inner turmoil on his face. Forcing a smile onto his face, he said, "Of course, Inquisitor. I look forward to it. Give my regards to the Commander. I hope his recovery is swift."

Then he spun away just as his smile started to feel brittle, and started to walk, but his feet wouldn't take more than a few steps. Swallowing, Solas half-turned to say, "I did you a disservice the other day. I am _more_ than merely satisfied with your progress. I am amazed. And that is no lie. It is not the student who was at fault, but the teacher. And I am sorry, Tir'alas."

He wouldn't, he _couldn't_ look at her then. With quick strides, he left the garden. His heart pounded arhythmically, a shooting spasm in his chest. For a moment, he wondered if Varric still had any of that liquor on hand.

But no. He needed more control, not less.

The walls of Skyhold closed in around him. Perhaps he needed a respite from it all. Grabbing a small pack and his staff, Solas again slipped out with the foot traffic leaving the fortress. As before he made sure no one followed, then struck his own path.

The pounding mist of the waterfall before his cave flecked water all over his face. Stepping through the hidden portal, he closed it again with a thought. The eluvian inside sang a welcome, but he would not open it.

There'd be no point. He had none of the things he needed to start on the great Work again. Not his orb, not his power. Nothing. Against the far wall lay a sepulchre. His sepulchre. A simple stone slab upon which he'd slept millennia, spirit lost in the far Fade. Riven as the world had been riven. It had taken all of his might to return. Awaken.

With a wave, Solas called on the element of air to sweep away the dust of ages. Giving a small groan, he lay in the shallow indention in the middle and closed his eyes.

For one mad moment, he wondered what would happen if he fell into the Uth'en'era again. What terrible things he might see if he woke again in a few hundred years. Would the world even be there any more? Could Corypheus's insanity destroy it utterly?

Questions he found he didn't want the answers to.

He opted for regular slumber. The Fade, penumbra near enough here to almost taste, drew him out of his body. Kind, it wrapped him in his few happier memories of the distant past.

Wandering through those bright shards, Solas kept watch for an old friend, one he knew to haunt these sorts of places. Reflections of strong recollections.

His friend did not appear in the misty memories, nor answered when he called throughout the Fade. Odd. Though hardly the first time it had happened. Wisdom often strayed from the known paths. She sometimes lingered on a single spot for months, concentrating and meditating. Her zeal for knowledge may have kept her from hearing.

Pity, for he could really use a friend's … advice.

* * *

A/N: Update Day! Love update day. Loove. Anyway, our Solas continues to be an idiot. Tsk tsk tsk. I do so love writing him. He's an interesting mix of things. Lots of good, lots of bad. He's flawed. I love Bioware for their compelling characters, each with their own foibles and failings. I hope you enjoy this chapter, O' fellow fanfic enthusiasts. Cheers!


	41. Chapter 41

A week later, he returned to Skyhold, refreshed and balanced. His first sight upon entering filled him with gladness. Cullen stood in the courtyard, haranguing the troops in his usual fashion. So, she'd been successful defeating whatever sort of illness the Commander had. _Good._

The Commander turned and saw him, smiled and said, "Ah, Solas. She said you'd be back. Ea son?" _Be you well?_

 _Elvhen? She taught him some elvhen?_ "I am well. Sathem. And I see you've recovered. Due to the Inquisitor's potent potions, no doubt."

A sick sort of shift happened in the human's eyes, and he looked away for a moment as he answered, "Ha. Yes. I am better now. Thank you for the concern. Well, I must get back to my duties. Good day."

Solas peered at the Commander's turned back and hunched shoulders. There was a story there, but did he really want to pry? Unease settled in his stomach. How quickly the tenuous hold on his equilibrium slipped now he'd come back here.

He fell into the wake of some servants as he ventured up and around the stepped incline.

The two human maids giggled as they looked down at Cullen. The one whispered to the other, "Did you hear how she never left his bedside?"

Solas couldn't help but listen.

"I know! It's so romantic. Just think of it," said the other. "Her sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping the sweat from his brow. Maybe leaning in to kiss, or trail her fingers down to—"

"Maevis!' exclaimed the other, shocked.

"What? Like I never seen you with Jaxon, the stable boy."

They laughed together at that, oblivious to the discomfort of the apostate walking behind them. The one named Maevis commented, "Cor, the size of his hands, you just know he's got a big—"

The other squeaked, interrupting her with a shrill, " _Maevis!"_ Then she giggled and said, "Probably."

Eager to be out of earshot, Solas veered away as soon as he entered the hall. Varric gave him a nod, expression neutral. "Welcome back."

"Thank you, Ser Tethras." He paused at the door when the dwarf set down his parchment to peer at him.

Varric said, "Did you apologize?"

A little irritated at the dwarf's interference, Solas said, "Yes."

A smile broke out on Varric's face, wide and warm. "Good. Now we can be friends again."

Taken aback, but strangely touched, Solas remarked, "You give your forgivenesses very freely."

The dwarf shrugged. "We're people. We do shitty things to each other. Shit piled on shit. If a little forgiveness can help empty the shit bucket a little, then why the hell not."

Solas chuckled. "Interesting ... imagery."

"I aim to please," said Varric, picking up his quill and paper again.

"Have you seen the Inquisitor perchance?"

That quill jabbed toward the far end of the hall. " _They_ tell me she's been in her room since Curly got better. Probably sleeping off whatever they got up to in that tower."

Solas willed away the imaginings that ambushed him then to hear the dwarf ramble on—

"You know, I've been up there. It's cold and drafty. No wonder Curly got sick. I told him he should move out of the damn tower, but I think he secretly likes to stand on the very top and look over the whole place. And brood." Varric sighed as he glared at the parchment. Then he snorted in disgust.

Curious, Solas said, "Something the matter?"

"Oh, it's just this new story I'm working on. I've already had offers from some conservatory in Val Royeaux. They want to turn it into an opera, much as I shudder to think. Anyway, it's being stubborn."

"Writer's block?"

"No, nothing so simple. The character's refuse to go in the direction I prod them. They keep saying things like, 'But _I_ would never say that.' and 'Why _wouldn't_ the Contessa enjoy feather play?'" Varric slouched with a frown. "Then it just turns into a big damn argument with lots of shouting and throwing of fine cutlery."

Laughing, Solas said, "You speak of them as though they are real. As though they stand over your shoulder and read as you write."

The dwarf turned reproachful eyes on the apostate. "They _are_ real, Chuckles. Aren't you the one who's always going on about how spirits are reflections of ideas and then saying spirits are people, too? What are book characters if not ideas?"

"Forgive me. Perhaps I am just surprised that someone listened to me. Since it has been intimated to me that my lectures are a powerful sedative."

Varric laughed then, a long series of loud guffaws. Solas found himself chuckling right along.

The door at the end of the hall opened, drawing his full attention. But then disappointment stung him as he saw that only the elven handmaiden exited. She wiped her hands over her apron and set to placing discarded dishes onto a tray, going back in several times for more.

"You might like the plot of this one," said Varric, waving his quill in the air. Solas saw it out of the corner of his eye, as well as the sly grin growing on the dwarf's face.

"Oh?" he said, still watching the elf maid. There seemed something familiar ….

"Oh, yeah. Intrigue, murder, betrayal, romance and ... _intrigue_."

"You said intrigue twice."

"Well, that's cause there's so much of it. So many masks changing hands that no one knows who _anyone_ is by the end of it. But," Varric said, his voice dropping to conspiratorial levels of softness. "The main hook is a 'King Incognito.'"

Distracted, Solas asked, "And that is?"

"It's when the high and mighty ruler of the land says, probably to some steward or other possible villain, or maybe himself if he's that conceited, he says, 'Gee, I wonder what the people really think of me?' Is he generous? Is he a tyrant? Would he even really know what people say about him when he's not around?" The smooth cadence of the dwarf's practiced delivery did start to intrigue Solas, so much so that he turned his head to watch Varric speak. Saw how the dwarf had set his papers down and away. Knew he wasn't really speaking of that story any more.

The rogue grinned, flashing pearly teeth before continuing, "So then he says to himself, 'I must find out.' So then what do you think he does?"

Solas shook his head, knowing the question rhetorical. He certainly didn't want to ruin the dwarf's fun.

Varric waggled his brows and deepened his voice to an imperious growl, "'Bring me the poorest peasant in my kingdom that I might take on his guise and walk among the people.' Or something like that anyway."

A shivery sort of shock ran through Solas, though he knew Varric did not speak of him, the weird parallels threw him for a moment. Then he realized what, or rather, _who_ exactly the dwarf meant instead.

The rogue smiled again and drew his gaze to the elven handmaiden. Solas stared, jaw slack, marveling at the blindness of shemlen and, with chagrin, his own puerile dismissal of a simple elf maid. A single laugh escaped him, carrying through the semi-crowded hall.

Did that straight back stiffen under frock and apron? Yet she did not spin to look at him. No, she calmly took up tray and trash, and walked through the door that led to the downstairs kitchen. She'd even somehow managed to look less like herself. Darker skin. Different hair. Completely different mannerisms.

Varric said, tugging on Solas's sleeve, "Aw, don't give it away. She's having fun."

"Being a servant is fun?" he asked, smiling despite himself.

"It's the 'getting away with it' that's fun. I don't think anyone's noticed yet. Not even Nightingale, and that surprised the hell out of me, I'll tell you."

"They do not see her because she is an elf," he said.

Varric huffed. "Always bringing race into it. It couldn't just be because she's good?"

"She _is_ good. Being an elf is a clear advantage she is utilizing in this situation."

"I suppose you have a point. Still, I think I only noticed because I'm in here all the time. And I sort of … notice things."

Solas hummed in amusement. And pondered. Many … mischiefs danced before his eyes. He blinked them away and they went scurrying to the back of his mind.

Perhaps to be pulled out later.

* * *

Not all that much later, he slipped out of the rotunda and ventured toward Josephine's office. He opened the door and saw a second door, but didn't open it. He then turned left, slipping down the stairwell to the lower chambers.

Dust and cobwebs adorned every corner, though the main thoroughfare had been swept clean. The narrow stairway opened onto a huge dining hall, empty of any furniture. Peering left and ahead, Solas saw two doors, possibly three if the corridor next to the arch in the corner diagonal from him led somewhere.

Curious, he headed across first. The door there creaked as it swung inward, revealing a strange study filled floor to ceiling with books. A desk sat center with huge grimoires, stacks of more books and candles upon it.

Not a kitchen. Obviously.

He closed that door with the promise to himself that he'd return to look through all those tomes. For … academic purposes.

Next, he went to the arch. The sound of voices inside told him he'd found the kitchens, but, unable to help himself, he also took a look in the last room.

A wine cellar? And not just wine.

 _So this is where she puts it all._ Before him on shelves, every found dusty relic and bottle with even a drop of old booze rested.

His fingers ghosted over the labels. "Butterbile? Rowan's Rose?" Ah, even a bottle of Carnal. His ears warmed in memory.

A chair, a book and a lit candle to his immediate right made him wonder if someone, if a particular someone, came down here to get away from it all. He smiled, knowing that urge well. Had he not just done so himself? He chuckled as he turned and left the stockroom.

Standing just outside of the kitchen, he heard—

"It wasn't so bad today. Cook was in a jolly mood. She didn't shout at all! Not even when I dropped the ladle."

The woman must be a terror if a dropped ladle carried punishment. Solas shook his head and wondered if he should knock. Just then, the door opened and he looked down into the surprised and very human face of one of the kitchen staff. Willing his heart to slow, since for a second he'd been sure it would be Tir'alas, he smiled. "My pardon."

He could see the question floating around in her eyes, but then a loud and shouty voice suddenly entering the kitchen beyond the door made her cringe and duck past him. He moved aside to let her pass. Then he himself entered the dreaded demesne of the cook.

The warm kitchen greeted him with the smells of many delicious foodstuffs. Hanging garlic and cloves swung gently to and fro every time one of the busy helpers bumped them. Every table had an attendant, hands a flurry of activity getting all ready for the next meal.

The cook, a large woman in white, starched apron, called commands in a stern but not unfriendly voice. "Get that pot scrubbed and full of fresh water. I want it bubbling over the fire before the braces come from the butcher. No! The apple peels go in the bucket for the sows, not the midden! Maker, Danin, don't get your sleeves in the soup! Oh, Ser Solas!"

She saw him by the door and raised her brows, round face growing red and flustered. He nodded a greeting and walked further into the kitchen, staying out of the way of people carrying trays through the doors.

The cook wiped her hands on her apron and said, "What can I do for you, Ser?"

"Well, I had a question or, rather, a simple request in mind, but you seem busy. I will not trouble you—"

"Nonsense, Ser. Come in, come in. Sit here and tell me what you need," the woman said, ushering him into a chair. She perched on a stool next to it.

He sat with a sincere thanks, smiling at the human. His eye traveled over every person in the room, deliberately _not_ pausing on a certain elf maid. Keeping her in his periphery, he turned to the cook and said, "About two weeks ago, perhaps a bit longer, someone left a hot beverage made from chocolate on my desk. I'm embarrassed to say I drank it down rather quickly."

"Oh, the hot cocoa? So you liked it?" she asked, leaning forward with eagerness for his opinion. "We made it for the kiddies, but the secret got out and of course, those posh Orlesian ladies wanted some as well."

With a charming smile, he said, "It was delicious-no, it was _sublime_. I was wondering if perhaps, um …."

The cook's grin turned sly. "You could have more? Of course, Ser. There isn't much powder left, but …. Claudia! Do you think you could make this gentleman some of that cocoa?"

'Claudia' turned and curtsied, keeping her eyes down under her white bonnet. Her fingerless gloves pulled her frock to the sides as she replied, mouse-meek, "Yes, ma'am."

The cook patted Solas's hand as the 'servant' pulled a double-boiler free from the rack above. Solas watched as her hands flitted from sundry to sundry to jug. He'd seen this dance before, applying healer's arts to herbs. It seemed he discovered a strange new facet to her every time he looked. Soon she poured the chocolate concoction into a clean mug and delivered it to the table.

He reached and took it from her, his fingers perhaps lingering over hers for a fraction of a second too long. "My thanks."

'Claudia' curtsied again, never meeting his eyes and turned back to her task.

Solas sighed as he sipped the delightful drink, savoring its hot splash against his palate. The cook grinned once again at his obvious enjoyment and said, "You can always trust a man who loves his sweets, my old mum used to say. Oh, you are a good'un, Ser. I can tell. Not like that brutish Qunari or that evil girl, Sera."

He hid his conflicting reactions of disapproval and silent agreement with another smile. "I assure you, Kitchen-mistress, a sweet tooth is no metric for a man's morality. Young ladies such as yourself shouldn't let your guard down, lest virtues be stolen." He gave a little wiggle of one brow.

"Cheeky!" She laughed as she looked around, flushed. "'Ere! 'Young,' he says. And as far as virtues, that boat sailed long ago. Six grown babes gone. Bless you, Ser, for humoring an old woman. Gentleman such as you are welcome in my kitchen any time, pointy ears or no."

"Again, you have my thanks. Farewell," said he, standing and dodging around servers to get to the far door. He cradled his mug close to his chest as he opened the exterior door. The cool autumn air coasted along his skull. Seeing no one in the vicinity, Solas let a wide grin stretch his lips.

Thinking of her back there, wondering, fretting about whether her game was up drew a deep chuckle out of him.

He sipped the cocoa as he looked around. Three elven children played in an area just below him, with two chantry sisters looking after them from the door of the orphans' new domicile. Blackwall stood in the door to the stable, carving a piece of wood in his hands as he, too, looked on.

Little Alouette waved, other hand stuck in her mouth. Solas waved back as he descended the steps. The girl went back to playing. He took the long way back to rotunda so he could enjoy the crisp air. It paired well with the hot drink in his hand.

* * *

 **A/N: Soooo, our Inquisitor likes to play servant, does she? 'Pay no attention to the maid. Just another NPC here.' lol. Well, one must find amusements where one can, I suppose. One might imagine she's busy all the time, but in any long campaign, there's bound to be downtime. Waiting for requisitions to be filled, or missives to be sent and received. Waiting, just lots of waiting. So, yeah, why not. Lol. May this chapter bring you enjoyment, or at the very least distraction. Cheers!**


	42. Chapter 42

The nightmare shattered.

With a loud grunt, Solas woke, chest and breath heaving as he fought to realign himself with the present. With the now. Agony shot through both temples as he tried to open his eyes too early.

Then stinging sorrow sapped his strength and he flopped back on the couch, arm over his face. Through clenched, bared teeth, his hoarse pants filled the empty rotunda.

His senses registered a presence at his side just as a voice reached his ringing ears—

"Sola—?" Then a sharp intake laden with pain. Reason shook him aware and he felt the reaching hand in his grip, felt how he'd near crushed the fingers together. His grip loosened but did not let go.

"Tir'alas?" he rasped, finally blinking burning eyes open to see her standing over him, in her loose nightshift, face pale as the moon. His other hand came up and rubbed those bruised digits, a soft and gentle massage. He said, shameful, "Ir abelas, lethallan. I am so sorry."

He kissed her fingertips in abject apology and let her go. Rolling away from her, he covered his face with his hand, trying to will the torment away before she saw. If it wasn't already too late. The cushion sank as she sat on the edge, and that hand he'd tried to break touched his shoulder. "I … I heard you cry out. What is the matter, lethallin?"

He took a deep, hitching breath. "It is nothing."

Her voice took on an edge, "I am tired of people telling me it is _nothing_ when it is clearly _something_."

Solas turned a sour eye on her through the cage of his fingers, but softened his glare when he saw the very real worry on her face. "I just need a moment to shake the dreams from my mind and perhaps drink … some tea."

She chuffed. 'Now I know something's wrong."

He gave a wry huff, then winced as the pain in his skull intensified.

Tir'alas demanded, "Move your hand."

Looking at her through his fingers, he frowned, but obliged anyway.

Both her hands came up to each side of his face, hovering as her eyes asked his permission. He gave it with a lifting of his brows.

Her fingertips pressed where his jaw met cheekbone, moving in little circles. Other than feeling vaguely nice, it didn't do anything for his headache. He opened his mouth to ask her what she thought to accomp—Oh.

 _Oh …._

The tight, coiled nugget of misery in his head suddenly loosened and drained away. Like it had never been.

"Has anyone ever told you that you grind your teeth in your sleep?" she asked, bland as toast.

He laughed, soft, lax under her ministrations. "No. Until recently, there had been few witnesses to speak to me of it."

"Just 'squeak, squeak, squeak' all night long." Her fingers moved up to his temples, drawing larger circles.

He melted further into the couch. "I'm sorry."

"I got used to it after the first couple times. But I saw then how you'd been grumpier some mornings because of it. How that made your commentary those days extra … sharp." She hummed, mouth twisting into a smirk. "Ready to talk now?"

"Does this interrogation technique generally work? Is this how you got Alexius to agree to part with his research?" he asked, smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"I only use this particular torture on really tough cases. Stop deflecting," she said, as her thumbs did really interesting things behind his ear.

He let his eyelids droop so he only saw a sliver of the world without. She centered it. Sighing, he said, "One of my oldest friends has been captured by mages. Forced into slavery. I heard her cries as I slept, felt her get funneled away into darkness."

Tir'alas's eyebrows drew up and together in sympathy. "What did these mages use to capture your friend? Blood magic?"

"A summoning circle, I imagine."

Now, surprise dotted her features. "Your friend is a spirit."

"Of Wisdom. Unlike the spirits clustering around the rifts to enter our world, she was dwelling quite happily in the Fade." His hand made an angry flicking motion before dropping back onto his chest. "She was summoned against her will, and wants my help to regain her freedom and return to her home."

The Inquisitor's chin firmed. "Do you have any idea what they want with your friend?"

"No. She knows a great deal of lore and history, but one only need ask her in the Fade. It is possible they seek to obtain knowledge she will not part with and intend to torture her for it." How that ate at his heart.

Tir'alas's eyes narrowed as resolve hardened her expression, and she squirmed with barely suppressed impatience. "All right. Let's go get your friend."

For some reason, asking for her help hadn't occurred to him til just then. Touched, he said past the lump in his throat, "Thank you."

She stood, but he grabbed her hand before she ran off. Solas said, "It is a long way from here. As much as I'd love to be off right this instant, I am not well rested after that vision. I can do her no good if I drop off my mount on the first day out. Dawn?"

Tir'alas nodded, looking down where their hands met. She seemed as reluctant to leave as he to let go.

He wet his lips and whispered, daring, "Stay with me? I believe I will sleep better if you are near. I will try not to grind my teeth."

After a long moment, she nodded, but didn't move. He pulled her down to him, gathering her until she rested her meager weight atop his chest and hip. Comfortable closeness. And a growing heat he ignored for the sake of sleep. He whispered, "Is your hand alright?"

"Nothing some elfroot won't fix," she said, tangling that hand in his shirt. He laced his fingers with hers and laid one more kiss on her knuckles.

"Stubborn," his tired mouth mumbled. With a long, drawn-out sigh that she echoed, he slept in a peace only troubled by thoughts of his friend.

* * *

" _Lethallan, I am sorry,_ " he rasped, the elvhen he spoke too lyrical to truly convey the jagged grief tearing his heart. He crouching before the freed spirit of Wisdom. Corrupt darklight still ran in dark veins throughout her being. Bitter sorrow lanced through his core as he looked upon her, once so bright and beautiful.

" _I am not. I am happy. I'm me. You helped me."_ Her half-ephemeral features flexed into a sad smile. " _Now you must endure. Guide me into death."_

Solas looked away to blink the stinging from his eyes, then his gaze found her again. "Ma nuvenin."

Calling to what slivers remained of his mantle, he reached out and … unraveled her. Her energies dispersed, following a path even he couldn't see. Would they return to the Fade? He did not know. He said to the wind, "Dareth shir'al."

A light step on his right presaged the appearance of green and gold cloth in his periphery. He turned his head slightly to hear the Inquisitor say, "I heard what she said. She was right. You did help."

"Now … I must endure." His lips drew back and down in a small grimace that didn't do the howling within any sort of justice.

Her hand found his shoulder and gave a warm squeeze. As much as it threatened to soothe, he didn't want to be soothed. Something itched to get out. A hot, tight, smothering feeling. Solas stood and let her hand fall off, turning to give her grateful smile. To the question in her eyes, he said, "You would ask to help. But you already have. Now … all that remains is _them_."

' _Them'_ being the fools, the transgressors, who'd bound and destroyed a rare and magnificent being. They approached, babbling something Solas didn't even hear above the buzzing wrath that surged to fill the hollow of his belly.

Tir'alas's face reflected his exact emotions as a snarl twisted her lips. They both turned to look at the mages, who stammered and trembled before their combined ire.

Solas advanced, his eyesight focusing on just them. A tight tunnel of bright and deadly clarity surrounded by a red nimbus of blood. " _You_ tortured and killed my friend!"

At his back, he heard the Inquisitor say, " _Lin'sul'lin_."

They tried to flee.

Tried. And failed.

Standing over their flaming corpses, he tried to calm the rage, clenching his hands until blood flowed from crescent-shaped wounds on his palms. It didn't help. It did nothing.

"Damn them." He wanted to burn it all; the shemlen, their cities … this nightmare of a future. His heart hammered hard with hate. Keeping it bottled grew increasingly difficult. He needed …. He needed …. The words spilled from his mouth, even as his feet began to move, "I need some time alone. I will meet you back at Skyhold."

A glance over his shoulder at her face stunned him. Sorrow and acceptance in harmonious equal measure shone out of her eyes. Two tears gently rolled down her cheeks. Tir'alas gave a little scooping nod, _Go, then. Do as you will._

Beyond her, Solas saw bright cloth and painted wood. The aravels of the Dalish slowly rolled toward her, the halla pullling them bugling in high, whistling voices. The figure of Keeper Hawen rode the lead carriage, face cold and stern.

The sight exacerbated his already fraying control. That the People had been reduced to _this_. Using the brilliant, compassionate Inquisitor to do their dirty work. For he knew why they had come.

Solas barely stopped himself from lashing out. From setting all those 'elves' aflame. As soon as he left their line of sight, he burst into a sprint. He had to get away.

The pump of his legs, the swinging of his arms, the breath that sawed in and out of his mouth. He concentrated on just these as he sped away.

He ran and ran until exhaustion stole his ability to run any more. His muscles, heavy and spent, dragged through the air. At the base of a large tree, he spied an old fox den. A hollow just big enough to climb into. Which he did.

Curling into a ball, Solas shook. With grief and fatigue. The cool ground soothed his heated flesh.

With one finger, he traced a ward in the dirt at the entrance before closing his weeping eyes to think.

No longer could he just sit by and wait. Complacency would damn them all. This … occurrence only highlighted and reaffirmed the need for change.

No, it was time to marshal whatever forces could be found.

But first ….

* * *

 **A/N: Whew. Short chapter, but I think the canon ones tend to be, because there's not much I can add, really. :D I tell you, this scene in the game hurteded me. I wish we'd been able to save Wisdom and speak with her, maybe she could have joined the Inquisition as an agent or something. But seeing as she and Solas are super tight, she'd probably be circumspect in what she shared. Especially about him. Gotta have the BIG REVEAL and all. Lol. Anyway, reviews, comments and critiques are very welcome.**


	43. Chapter 43

He came upon a scene of incipient carnage.

The city of Wycome lay below him, nestled atop a promontory overlooking the Amaranthine Ocean. A sea of torches flooded out of the gate and descended upon a Dalish camp nearby.

" _Lord Fen'harel, in the city, they say the Duke is dead. Assassinated."_ One of his few immortal agents knelt at his side, hand over heart. The wolf-headed cloak seemed to grow heavier as Solas peered out from under the fanged hood. It still smelled as it had of old. Magic and mystery. Putting it back on, for however briefly, both gladdened and filled him with melancholy.

" _They blame the Dalish,"_ he said, responding in elvhen. His hands clenched, one on thigh, the other on staff. He'd come to get answers himself from Tir'alas's clan, the Lavellan. Now it seemed he might be too late to do anything but light the pyres for their bodies.

" _There was a plague. The Duke had poisoned the shems in the city with red lyrium to spur the people to action against the Dalish. I do not know who killed the Duke."_ The agent stood, far firelight reflecting anger and sorrow in his eyes. " _What would you have me do, Lord?"_

He sighed and pondered. Not nearly the number needed to quell that entire horde; they two. He could tell from Ithelanas's tense stance that he harbored an intense unease. But did he balk at helping their fallen cousins? Or did _not_ helping disturb him more?

No. Solas couldn't just stand by. " _We'll take what survivors we can find and flee west into the forests."_

With a chilling ululation, they rode down the hill on halla dressed for war. Like raiders, they swept in among the fighting throngs. Dalish elves ran back and forth, screaming as they fell under the humans' assault.

Solas flicked his staff out and set a blizzard among them, followed by a series of fire mines that broke up the mob into confused clusters. Ithelanas struck down enemies in droves, spirit blades flashing.

The horde broke and ran back for the city gates, leaving their dead to mingle with their enemies'. Solas gathered himself and his follower and looked around, hoping for some sign that a few Dalish had survived. Corpses, both whole and sundered, lay in piles among burning aravels. He turned to Ithelanas, with a barked, " _Search. The shemlen will regroup once they realize how few we are."_

Already, he could hear the angry shouting from the city walls, the rallying cries. And despaired, for he found not a single soul to save on that bloody field.

" _Lord, I found one! Its wound may be mortal."_ His agent approached, an elderly elven woman across his arms. Two arrows sprang from her gut, just below the rib cage. Lips stained with blood hung slack in a hawk-nosed face marked with Mythal's tree. She hung over Ithelanas's forearms, senseless.

Solas sent an exploratory tendril of magic into her. " _She fades fast. I cannot heal her here. We will go."_

He gestured for her to be passed up to him on his mount and pulled her across his thighs. With a click of his tongue, the halla turned and bounded away. Ithelanas hard behind. As they rode, Solas wrapped a rejuvenating barrier on the white-haired Dalish elf. It kept her stable, barely.

Far from the city, they stopped on the shore of the Minanter River. Ithelanas went to work securing the area, while Solas busied himself with the survivor.

She groaned as he set her upon his warm cloak. Eyes like chips of emerald opened in her careworn face. They rolled around until they found him. She said, "Lethalli—?"

Then broke off as agony took her, mouth opening in a silent scream. She pulled her air against a ruptured diaphragm, he knew. Swooning, she visibly steeled herself.

"Do not speak, lethallan. Your injuries are extensive." He watched her take in his bare face, his neutral brown clothing. But her eyes did not harden, as he'd expected. Curious.

Then, her hand suddenly clutched at his wrist, gaze looking around in desperation and settling back on his with a wild question.

Solas shook his head, then reached out to still the woman when she thrashed. "Be still. I am going to put you in a sleep. So I can pull out the arrows and heal you. Worry not." He squeezed her hand, for the terror in her eyes moved him to comfort.

At a wave of his hand, she dropped into slumber. Solas considered her for a time before moving to cut away her clothing at the midriff.

"Would it not be more merciful to kill it now, while it sleeps?" asked Ithelanas, dropping into a boneless crouch next to him. "Is it worth expending so much energy on a task that will only extend its life by a tiny fraction, if successful?"

Solas shot the elf a measuring look. A soft rebuke. Ithelanas averted his gaze. Solas said, "I have questions. If she survives, she may help answer them. She may help with many things. Also, when kindness costs nothing, why not give it?"

Ithelanas shifted in discomfort. "The master is generous."

"Do not call me that. You have not belonged to anyone for millennia."

"Yes, Lord Fen'harel," said the arcane warrior.

Solas sighed, with the sour thought, _Small improvement,_ and then spotted the corner of a grubby piece of bloody parchment crumpled in the wounded woman's hand. He pried it free and opened it to read—

* * *

 _Alas,_

 _I know not whether this will reach the Inquisition. And it's my hope someone there can read this to you. The Duke is dead, and the soldiers of Wycome blame us. All the elves in the city have been killed, blamed for some plague that only strikes down humans. Now they hunt us as well._

 _Most of the clan is already dead._

 _Live well, da'len. There are so many things I wish I had told you. So many things I wanted to say._

 _They are coming for us._

* * *

Brows furrowing, Solas read it over again. Then passed it to Ithelanas. "Take this back to the battlefield and leave it among the bodies. Make sure it is discovered."

The elf bowed as he stood. He then bolted off into the dusklight, mounting his halla on the run.

Dragging his attention back to the task before him, Solas reached out with both hands and grasped the arrows by the haft. Drawing on his innate tie to winter, he phased into intangibility, concentrating on taking just the arrows with him and not the woman.

As soon as the resistance slackened, he pulled them free, dropping them on the ground just as his spell faded. Then his hands went over the now gushing wounds. Her body cavity started to fill with blood, her breathing becoming labored.

Mending with as much haste as he could, Solas shuddered as his magic depleted far faster than he'd hoped, but not as quick as he'd feared. With the last ounce of energy, he felt the reckless, lethal outpouring slow to a trickle then cease. Thin skin stitched itself back together over lightly mended muscle and organs.

His chin dropped to his chest, gaze affixed to his trembling, flexing hands. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. _A complicated healing accomplished without the aid of a single lyrium potion._

Satisfaction settled in his core, along with the hope that perhaps his power had finally started to trickle back to him.

A voice broke him out of his reverie. "W-who are you?"

He looked down at the aged elf and saw that she'd awoken. Pain still clouded her gaze, but they lay on him with admirable steadiness. "No one of consequence."

She gave him a wan smile. "I would have the name of the elf who saved my life."

A spike of anger touched him. "You have not been overly concerned with having or giving names to people before now. Why would _mine_ be so a great concern?"

The elven matron drew back and frowned. "Have I somehow offended you, lethallin?"

Solas huffed a near soundless laugh. "Very little about you _doesn't_ offend me."

Anger lit a slow, simmering fire in her eyes. "If I am so offensive, then why save me at all?"

"Because I, unlike you, cannot abide abandoning _any_ of the People, no matter how unlucky … or _unloved_." He spat the word, along with its Elvhen counterpart, " _Lath'din_."

She paled and cowered before the full weight of judgement in his eyes. "Who _are_ you?"

Solas considered her for a long time, giving nothing away.

Something in his expression must have unnerved her, for her hand came up as a warding gesture. Then her mouth hardened. "You come from nowhere and presume to judge me? Judge my kin? My Clan is dead. What more penance can I pay?"

Tears sprang into her eyes, muddying their crystalline hue as they fell, running along crease and wrinkle.

"So much more. Answers, for starters."

"Ask then, flat-ear," she hissed. "Since in your eyes I have so much to answer for."

He ignored the epithet. "Why do the People send away the unloved, Keeper?" For her clothing gave her away.

She stammered, "I know not of what you speak—"

"Do not lie to me. I have seen them. Clanless. _Name-_ less! Shorn like livestock," he accused, finger jutting toward her.

Taken aback, she blinked at him. Then she slumped back, defeated. "They go to the Red Lady."

"And who is this 'Red Lady?'" he demanded.

"The … the Rasdalelan." The Keeper swallowed, shame creasing her expression. "She picks one to teach. To take up the Task."

"And the others? What becomes of _them?_ "

The Keeper's mouth drew into a severe line. She would not answer.

Solas said, "What is the Task?"

"The Creators do not answer. Perhaps they never did. Even Fen'harel, who loves devilry, is silent. For ages now. But who can right the most terrible wrongs?" whispered the Keeper, hand reaching out to warm over the fire. Her eyes looked into the far distance. Past? Future? "Who can dare the unspeakable to do so? Lath'din. The word itself so ugly that it can only be spoken Keeper to Keeper, whispered in dark corners and deep winter nights."

She looked at him then and said, "In a world filled with enemies that hate us, who can we turn to?"

Solas fought down the surge of guilt. "So the Rasdalelan is a tool for vengeance."

"No … and yes." The Keeper bared her teeth in shame and pain. "She brings us the justice we are so long denied."

"Justice implies a measure of law. And punishments that fit the crimes committed. I have seen no trials. Just the murders of those deemed 'guilty.'" Solas speared her with a pointed look. "Who determines who is guilty? You Keepers?"

"Are-are you one of hers? Alas's?" she asked, awestricken.

Solas laughed. "I am one of mine."

"But you say you've seen—? Are you with the Inquisition?"

"Let us just say our purposes align. There is a blighted creature roaming the land. He opened the hole in the sky and will do worse if left unchecked." He loomed over the recumbent elf. "You threaten that purpose every time you hand down one of your execution orders. If you do not cease, one day she will be discovered. And then the shemlen may destroy her. Perhaps even make war on the People."

The Keeper blanched. "You do not understand. Her duty to the People _must_ be done."

"Why? One would think the murder of a few shemlen could wait for the current threat of apocalypse to pass."

She bit her lip and struggled to sit upright. "It's not just the shemlen. The scope of her duty extends to the Dalish, too."

"Explain."

"There is a fine balance between survival and extinction. When the shems go too far, the Rasdalelan comes to put it right. And when we go too far …." The Keeper's eyes closed, shame ghosting over her features. "She does the same. Tipping the scales back into balance. She cannot catch every atrocity, but it is enough. It is an office that has been passed down since the time of the Dales. We need her. Without her, I cannot imagine what chaos will befall we Dalish."

Solas sat back on his heels and thought, running a finger over his lips. "What if there were an alternative?"

Just then, Ithelanas returned and dropped to one knee beside him. "It is done, Lord."

Shocked at the sudden appearance of another elf, one even more unworldly, the Keeper leaned away. "Who—?"

"This is Ithelanas." The other male looked a little offended that Solas had given her his name. He smiled by way of apology, but such a thing would no doubt prove necessary for the plan now taking shape in his mind. "A skilled and capable elf who I am pleased to call friend."

The elf in question looked down and away for a moment, clearly flustered. Solas could see the worry there, that the arcane warrior had somehow overstepped his bounds, but also, a small smile twitched at the corner of Ithelanas's mouth.

"I may have _his_ name, but not yours?" she asked, looking between the two of them.

"That is so. You do not need mine, but he will need yours. What is your name, Keeper?"

"I am Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavel—" She stopped, grief washing over her face. "But I suppose there is no more Lavellan."

"No, but there could be." For the first time, Solas allowed his gaze to soften.

Her brows furrowed. "No more riddles, lethallin."

"Take to your heart those who the Dalish have spurned. The lath'din deserve so much better than you've given," Solas said, ignoring the bristling Ithelanas. The awful word affected even the stoic warrior. Solas continued, " They are of the People. Is there so much left of the Elvhen that we can just throw children away?"

"But how will we—?"

Solas gave a nod toward the male at his side. "We will take up the burden. Your Rasdalelan will no longer be needed, I so swear." He put the full weight of conviction in his tone.

Before his certainty, Deshanna gaped. "I cannot—This is too … strange."

"These are strange times. With even stranger on the horizon," he said, with a smile. Catching her gaze, he said, "The old times are soon come again, whispers of stirring echoes that even _you_ must feel. Then none of us need cower before those who would oppress and enslave us."

Ithelanas raised his head with pride.

To the flicker of doubt in Deshanna's gaze, Solas laughed again and said, "No. I am no madman. Rest assured, you will have your swift and terrible justices."

"And what will you have? For this bargain seems one-sided," she demanded.

"One less distraction on my path. One less threat to all my work. And more, but nothing that will bring harm to the People. Only help."

The Keeper's mouth twisted in indecision before she said, "I … must confer with the other Keepers."

"Ithelanas will take you. He will act as a go-between for mine and yours."

"Lord—" started Ithelanas. When Solas turned a questioning eye on him, the elf grimaced, and spoke in whispered elvhen, " _It-_ she _reeks of death. I understand that we need to expand our power base, but I implore you, do not make me_ — _"_

" _No one is making you do anything. The amount to which you are beholden has always been up to you. Be of service. Or be free to make your own way in this world."_ Solas admonished the elf with a look, eyeing the green vallaslin on his face. Dedicated to Elgar'nan, no less. " _It is your choice to stay or go, as it was your choice to keep the vallaslin, but if you stay, do as I say. And I say, be discreet, for the one who listens knows more than you realize of the high tongue. Do not underestimate any of them."_

"You speak as the ancients do," said Deshanna. She started to ask why, but Solas's blank stare shut her down.

"I obey, Lord," said Ithelanas. Then he stood and walked a few paces away to ready the halla.

Deshanna looked at Solas, as though trying to pick him apart with her mind. He returned her regard with mild expression. She said, "All this for the Inquisitor? A mere pawn, as you imply?"

"In this, you'd be well served in not thinking of anyone as a 'mere' anything. But yes, in part, this is for her. The one _you_ called 'Dirt.'"

The Keeper shut her mouth and looked around as though lost. For a long moment, he watched her uncertainty scattering like dust motes on a sunbeam, then her lips firmed and she set her gaze on him again.

"Is she …. Is she well?" said she, showing more concern that Solas could ever have guessed.

"Well enough, if beset on all sides by enemies."

The Keeper hummed in thought, then said, "I'd heard she is now a mage. Is this true?"

"It is."

Deshanna sighed. "If only I'd known …. She'd never shown the talent. Not one drop of magic. I was sure."

"Would knowing have made what you did to her right? Would having magic make her suddenly _worth_ something in your eyes?"

"I waited. Hoping. As Keeper I could not show favor or bias or take her to my hearth. But she proved herself over and over a hundred-fold when she returned from the Red Lady. I thought she'd found her way. Her destiny." The Keeper sighed again. "But if she'd shown magical potential, I would have had her be First."

The irony made him shake his head.

"One you called lath'din?" he scoffed. "Unlikely."

"Do not think me needlessly cruel. It takes a certain combination of traits to wear the mask of the Rasdalelan. Intelligence, cunning, ruthlessness and, above all, loyalty. She had all these in scores."

Solas sneered. "And her pariah-hood to ply with the promise of inclusion. Of family. Never delivered, of course. But hinted at just enough to keep her dangling at the end of the leash."

Deshanna swallowed. "A truth like sour wine."

"Tis an ugly thing, this systemic abuse you've all condoned for centuries. You would be better off rid of it."

Shame filled her face. "It never sat right with me. I will be happy to see the end of it. _If_ you can deliver on your promise."

"I can, and I will."

"Then, I will speak on your behalf with the other Keepers at Arlathvhen."

"Good," said he, moving to stand. But her hand on his wrist stopped him.

"Are … you near enough to her to tell me … is-is she happy?"

The woman's obvious genuine caring again threw him for a moment, before he replied with a soft, "No."

"Oh." Despair colored her expression.

He took pity on her. "But she has taken a name for herself. And she makes of her people a sort of … family."

"Oh," said she, again, with a pained smile. "That's good. Do tell her I wish her happiness."

"No. If you would say such, go to Skyhold yourself and do it in person. See for yourself what wonders she has made despite you and all you Dalish have done to her." Then he warned her with his eyes to not speak of _this_ to the Inquisitor. Their meeting. Their terms. Or risk dire consequences.

She nodded and rose with him, faltering as she found her feet. Bent over her still tender middle, she walked toward Ithelanas. The arcane warrior moved to assist her, pulling her arm over his shoulder as they made their way to the waiting halla. He helped her astride one, then leapt upon the other.

"Revas!" Solas called, smiling when Ithelanas echoed it in a similar shout. Solas lifted a hand in farewell as they bounded away. Then he reached down and picked up his cloak, wrapping it around himself once more.

Settling the hood so it perched in comfort, he started to the south. The chill breeze of late fall tossed the fur around him to and fro.

So many balls set in motion, all with too many hopes pinned on them. Fragile. Imperiled.

He hoped not _too_ many tumbled out of his juggling hands.

* * *

 **A/N: A longer chapter to slake any thirsts the last, shorter one might have left. I hope you like it! Also, sorry the updates have been erratic of late. Life keeps butting in with its demands for my attention. Dang it, life! I'm busy playing with stories in my thoughtmeats. Just let me do the thing! Lol. Anyway, till next time!**


	44. Chapter 44

The lively snap of the banners on the battlements greeted him as he walked through the gates of Skyhold.

Divested of cloak and armors, Solas wandered in as one of the pilgrims, who bumped and hurried along the bridge. A bugling ahead made the crowd part down the center, hugging the walls.

Seeing who rode toward him, Solas stayed in the middle of the path.

The shock on her face, the grin and laugh, made his heart flip. Her hart trotted toward him, three companions at her back on horses. She came to a sliding halt less than five feet away, lips bending to shape his name, "Solas."

"Inquisitor," he replied.

"How … How are you?" She bit her lip, eyes darting around, as though regretting bringing up so sensitive a topic amidst the intruding crowd.

"It hurts. It always does. But I will survive." He smiled.

Her shoulders stiffened as the many eyes watching shifted to her. "Th-thank you for coming back." A flicker in her gaze told him even she'd had doubts. Bull, Varric and Dorian gave each other a look behind her back. Solas heard the clink of coins passing hands.

Ignoring them, he said to her, "You were a true friend. You did everything you could. I could hardly abandon you now."

Many questions floated around in her eyes then, though her mouth thinned to a line to keep them in. Tir'alas looked about and back at her mounted companions, seeming indecisive. She said, abashed, "Forgive me. There's a ... thing we were about to go do. I, uh, I'm-"

"Go, then, lethallan," said he, amused a little at her waffling. "I will be here when you return."

Her lips almost shaped, ' _Promise?'_

He nodded, then took five steps to one side to join the crowd.

The Inquisitor's jaw firmed, though her steely orbs danced with elation. An echo of which surged in his tired old heart. With a ringing cry, she bade her mount to canter. And canter, the buck did, with three horses in his wake. Their hooves thundered down the bridge, resounding throughout the pass.

Solas waited until they left his line of sight before moving again, entering Skyhold with a cleansing sigh. The fortress whispered such sweet lies to him; warmth, safety, home. He so wanted to believe them. Perhaps, one day, if things turned out well, he may let himself believe.

Cole appeared at his side. "You're back! I looked, but I couldn't find you. The pain called, lightning on the horizon, but I couldn't help." The spirit turned a reproachful eye on him. "You kept me away."

Solas smiled an apology. "Hello, Cole. How are you?"

He blinked. "I _ate_." Wonder filled his tone. " _Food_."

With a laugh, Solas led them up and around the steps, pausing before taking that last flight. He looked around in wonder at the many changes that happened in the month and a half he'd been gone.

Gone was most of the scaffolding that had bracketed the walls. The northernmost tower now indeed towered. The zapping tang of magics seemed to hover over it. Between him and the tavern, a new practice ring stood, made of much sturdier stuff than the ramshackle ones.

Cole clasped his hands before him. "Change. Not scary, but sudden, startling."

Solas shook his head. "Time slips away." Then he turned the topic back to Cole. "You ate? What did you eat?"

The spirit gave a shy smile. "The body wants all on its own. I never asked it to do that."

"I know. It's called hunger. Your body changes to suit living on this side of the Veil. Magic no longer solely sustains you."

"Push past the lips and find out teeth aren't just for smiling. Tongue tastes while teeth tear. Grinding. Where does the spit come from? Soft now, the body moves it back to let it fall. Heavy, it slides. I swallow," Cole explained, still blinking as though caught in a bright light. "Now _I_ am heavy. Full."

"It _is_ … strange, is it not? Odd but … pleasant," said he, thinking of times not all that far in the past. "Speaking of food, I could use a repast. Shall we go to the tavern? It has been some time since you and I spoke."

Cole's hands wrung. "There is an angry man there. His mouth makes mirth, but he's _sooo_ angry. Inside. And sad."

"Would you rather we made other arrangements?" asked Solas, concerned.

"No. Sera made cookies," Cole said, drifting that way. His feet seemed to barely touch the ground. As though in pantomime of how mortals walked. Solas wondered what would happen if the spirit simply pulled his feet up. Would he float in earnest?

The image brought a smile to Solas's lips as he followed.

"I tried to help, but he saw me try and …," Cole began, but just then they entered the Herald's Rest and the raucous singing within drowned out the spirit's words.

"No, no, no! _That_ can wait outside!" said a boisterous bass voice, silencing the frivolity. A large finger emerged from the crowd, followed by that dark-haired man Solas had seen Varric speaking with almost a year ago. The finger pointed right at Cole.

With a lithe darting motion, the spirit somehow slipped behind Solas. His hat bumped the apostate in the back of the shoulder as he hid. Solas stepped forward and tapped the floorboards with the butt of his staff. " _He_ is Cole. And he has more right to be here than _you_ do."

The bearded human also stepped forward, his cobalt-hued eyes glinting in challenge under a black mop of hair. They squared off, mage to mage. The air charged with tension. Patrons fled or otherwise hunched to make themselves smaller targets, faces pale and fearful.

"Oh, stop it, Garrett," called a deep and sly female voice. In a flash of long legs, a dark-skinned Rivaini thrust herself off the table on which she'd been sitting. She rolled her eyes as she nudged him with a hip. " _Enough_ of the big, scary apostate routine."

"Isabella," the human groused, almost pouting at the woman. "You used to be so fun."

"I'm more fun when you haven't dragged me miles and miles away from the nearest ocean."

Solas, not mollified in the least, holstered his staff and continued to eye the mage with cold distaste. "If you are done bullying my friend, I believe we will find a corner table to eat where you won't be burdened with his presence. Nor he with odious yours."

He gestured to the dwarf barkeep and Cabot begrudgingly nodded. But the short man begrudged everything, even as he prepared two bowls of venison stew and bread. Steering Cole past the suspicious plate of cookies, Solas started looking for a place to sit.

A hissed conversation behind him drew his attention, and he turned his head at a polite cough. 'Garrett' smiled, a tad sheepish and said, "Look. I might have gotten a little … shouty earlier. With your friend. He said some … things-"

"Cracks in the veneer. The second face is showing." Cole nibbled on the cookie he'd somehow procured, looking up at the rafters.

Garrett coughed. "Yeah. Like that. Fucking unnerving. Anyway, imagine you were me and suddenly, in the middle of Inquisition's headquarters, you came upon an abomination—"

"He's not an abomination. He's a spirit manifested in flesh. A spirit of Compassion."

The human blinked. "Oh." Confusion made him look toward Isabella.

The Rivaini snorted and tossed an arm around the larger man. "What this idiot is trying to say is he's sorry he chased your friend away earlier. _And_ would you join us and let us buy you a drink or two."

Solas considered, with frown still firm upon his face. "Is your conscience so aggrieved that you require our presence at your table to assuage it? That you'd 'put up' with so strange a person?" The venom in those words could never be mistaken for anything but contempt.

"Honestly, we've seen weirder." Isabella laughed, then looked at her companion askance. "Oooh, he's a suspicious one. Fenris would love him."

Now Garrett frowned. "Fenris is not fond of mages, if you'll recall, Isabella dear."

The Rivaini chuckled, with dark intrigue. "I know of one mage he's fond o—"

"Isabella!" said the man, sharp. The ghost of some old pain flitted over his flushed features for a second. Then he looked at Solas and said, contrite, "Seriously, though. Please allow me to make amends."

The pieces slid together and clicked. Names, characteristics. Solas stated, "You are the Champion of Kirkwall."

"See? I told you Varric's descriptions were pretty on the nose." Then to Solas, he said, "Yes, yes I am. Well, in exile. Obviously, I'm not in Kirkwall. I'd be hanged."

"You _know_ those descriptions changed with every edition. To throw off the bounty hunters," Isabella said, tutting under her breath. She beamed at Solas. "I got to be blonde in one of them. _He_ got to be a girl."

Compelled, Solas did sit at their table, nodding thanks to Cabot, who set their meals down. "I confess I am surprised to see the Champion join the Inquisition."

Cole sat next to Isabella, who leveled a wily grin the spirit's way. The boy's eyes widened a bit as she slid closer to him.

"Why? Does the threat not … threaten us all?" asked the mage with a disgruntled harrumph.

Popping a piece of bread into his mouth, Solas tilted his head. "Yes, I suppose it does."

The Rivaini loomed ever closer to Cole, grin widening to bare teeth. The spirit, befuddled, offered her the cookie. Mouth parting, she delicately took a bite right from his fingers. Then chewed. Her expression soured as she choked the baked good down. Leaning back, she took a great big swig of her drink.

Amused, Solas fought to control his expression. Then the Champion drew his attention with his reply.

"Besides, guilt is a powerful motivator." Garrett shrugged. "It's … possible that Corypheus is free of his prison because of me."

"Really? How so?" Solas leaned forward, eager. "I take it you've encountered him before."

"Encountered, and killed. Or so I thought."

Solas hummed. "You made sure? In the moment, one can lose the ability to be discerning."

Garrett's expression darkened. "I know dead. He was very, very dead. In pieces, in fact."

"Fascinating."

"Annoying, more like."

With a flippant wave, Solas allowed, "Well, obviously. We've been researching how he survived the Conclave explosion. With very little luck, I'm afraid."

"I can't talk about it here, but I might know someone who can help. I finally got into contact with him. Your Inquisitor knows all about it already. She said we had time for one more major excursion before the passes close for the winter." Garrett drummed his fingers on the wooden table, then said, "I'm Hawke, by the way. And this is Isabella. Since we haven't been formally introduced."

"I am Solas."

"I know."

The elf raised a brow.

Hawke gave a sly smile. "The Inquisitor's description was very … thorough. She'd asked if we'd seen you on the road here."

Warmth shot up his spine. "Did she? One would think the world contained a wealth of elven apostates, especially now the circles have dissolved. How could you hope to find one among so many?"

Isabella ceased her teasing of Cole to interject, "Elven, yes. Bald, as well, she said. But the way she went on, I think I could probably have drawn you without even having laid eyes on you. The jawline, the shoulders. The hands. The graceful, long-boned hands."

Hawke laughed. "Oh, the _hands_! As though we'd accosted every elf and demanded, 'Show me your hands!' Oh, and not to mention, the freckles—"

Showing none of the pleased embarrassment that fluttered through his core, Solas said, aloof, "Yes, she cares for her people, as any good leader should. Well, I've returned, so she needn't have worried."

Isabella and Hawke exchanged a look.

"Solas!" called a familiar female voice. Cassandra. "You are back!"

"Seeker Pentaghast," said he, turning to greet her. She stood at the inn's door, eyes wide over the firm line of her mouth. Her eyes looked past him to the Champion, and she froze. Her distress puzzled him. He scooted to make room. "Won't you join us for dinner?"

"No, no, I couldn't possibly," she stammered, yet her feet carried her closer in a skittish sidle. "I need to speak to you."

Solas gestured for her to sit. She hesitated and he said, "Is it sensitive information? Do we need to go somewhere private?"

"No, I just …." She didn't seem to know how to end that sentence. Mouth snapping shut, she dropped onto the bench between Solas and Hawke. By her darting and bashful, glances, her discomfort had something to do with the Champion. The man gave her a toothy smile, but it faltered when he noticed the Seeker getting even more flustered.

After an awkward pause, Solas asked, "You needed to speak to me?"

"Er, yes. We're looking further into the disappearance of the Grey Wardens. I was hoping you and Blackwall could go over everything we have on them in the library to see if we can find any sort of clues. Leliana has ravens flying all over Thedas, passing messages from scholar to scholar." The touch of dismay in her eyes intimated the conclusion of such.

He finished for her, "But the Grey Wardens have always been a secretive group. So there is little to find."

"We were hoping a fresh pair of eyes …." She held a hand toward him, palm up.

Solas said, "I'll be happy to, Cassandra."

Hawke looked as though he might add something to the conversation, but his mouth closed and he looked away.

The elf stood, taking his bowl and plate in hand.

Left at the table with Hawke, his friend and Cole, Cassandra flushed and said, "I did not mean to keep you from finishing your meal."

"It is nothing to concern yourself over. I fully intend to take it with me. The sooner I get started, the sooner you will know if anything more can be gleaned from what we've gathered." When Cassandra moved to stand as well, he smiled and said, "Would you mind keeping an eye on Cole for me? In case hands should _wander_?"

Isabella's mouth twisted in protest, but her hand didn't drop from the back of Cole's chair. Nor did she move away from the spirit. "Oh, sweetie. I only molest the willing. I just enjoy meeting new people. And I've never met someone quite as _new_ as Cole."

Solas shot her a warning look, even though he knew her interest would not likely bear fruit. She'd probably just confuse the spirit. Had already, if the utterly perplexed look in Cole's eyes told truth.

Cassandra, in the meantime, looked as though Solas asked her to swallow scorpions. But she nodded anyway.

As Solas left, he heard the conversation behind him—

"So, Cassandra, was it? Varric told me all about you."

"Did he," she stated, somehow dry and panicked at the same time.

Isabella said, "So just how long have you had a body, Cole?"

The spirit replied, "I don't know. Time didn't exist then."

Solas shook his head as the door closed, cutting off their words.

The rotunda yawned wide before him, warm and welcoming. He hung pack and staff on hooks after he set his meal down. Sitting at his desk, Solas sighed. New stacks of paper had joined the general clutter of academia. He looked through them as he spooned stew into his mouth.

His eye drew over to the hand holding the paper after a time.

Setting the schematic down, Solas looked at his hands. He'd never thought them remarkable. Four fingers and a thumb, like many others. Broad palms. Calloused to staff grip and stained to quill. A scar across one knuckle from an errant knife blade.

Flexing them, he thought of Tir'alas. "She likes my hands." He chuckled at the heat that curled in his guts.

Did she know how much his hands liked her?

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for the late update. I've been fixated on Here, Here I Quake (which I really need to finish bringing over here. dang it. lol) Anyway, enter HAWKE with a certain pirate in tow. This Hawke is the same one from my 'The Wordplay' minific (which I also never finished. Bad me.) But he's basically just Male Mage/Sarcastic, who utterly failed mancing who he wanted to mance. It's his fault, I swear. Flirts with everything on two legs, so his intended target could hardly take him seriously. Anyway, hope you enjoy it!**


	45. Chapter 45

**(NSFW: BE WARNED.)**

He heard her coming up the stairs. She seemed to pause as though sensing him.

Her head crested over the railing and saw him, sitting where he'd sat since hearing the clarion bugling her approach. Next to her bed in the chair he'd dragged over there. Near at hand, on the coverlet, lay a stack of several hide drawings, all found in her quarters, hidden beneath a flagstone. Some stamped with the bloody hand, some not.

Face blank, Tir'alas approached the bed, eyeing him. Then her grey gaze drew over to the evidence of her … other work. She reached down and picked one up, thumb running over the etched surface. Then she saw the hide that lay over his one knee. Dead Rogalin of the Sabrae smirked under the flaking red-brown stain exactly the same size and shape as the hand she now used to hold someone else's likeness.

She whispered, shocked, "The agent. That was _you_."

Solas watched her over clasped hands. He wet his lips and said, "Tell me a story, lethallan."

Tir'alas dropped the drawing and that hand flew to her chest. For the briefest moment, he thought she might bolt. The lines of her body stretched like tense wire, but then just loosened all at once, and she sank to sit on the very edge of her bed, face turned away from him. Their knees nearly touched. Her hands lay limp in her lap like two dead doves.

Struck by that morbid thought, Solas leaned forward and captured those cold digits in his. He rubbed lightly to warm them. "Tir'alas-"

He stopped as her hands suddenly seized his in a tight grasp. She pulled in a huge, shuddering lungful of air and let it out in a soft long breath. "So … you know."

"Yes," he coaxed, soft as the breeze ruffling her hair from the open balcony doors.

She whispered, "I am the Rasdalelan."

Then she let out another sigh that seemed pulled from the very depths of her, swaying a little as she did. A profound relief filled her face as she finally turned her face back to him. Relief that someone, anyone, knew at long last. That relief yanked at his soul, and told him much about the constant strain she must have been living under.

"For nearly thirteen years." Then she smiled a sad smile and looked down at her hands. She said, "Have you told Leliana yet?"

Solas frowned and said, "No, and I do not intend to."

Tir'alas gave a dry huff. "How can you not? The leader of the Inquisition is an assassin. A cold-blooded murderer who would have put a knife in her dearly beloved Justinia had Corypheus not beaten her to it. Do you believe somewhere deep inside I'm actually grateful to the bastard for it? Creators, that's _depraved_."

Now anguish started to burn away the relief, starting with a creasing of the skin around her eyes until strain lined her face.

He reasoned, "Every day since must have tormented you."

"You know, at the beginning, I thought I _had_ done it. I couldn't remember anything past actually entering the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I still can't. I woke in a cell, the Anchor screaming in my flesh. Cassandra barking at me. And I saw that hole in the sky and knew, _knew_ , that it had all finally caught up with me. My punishment. I was ready to die. For all I'd done, for whatever it was that I must have done in the Temple."

"But then, somehow, I didn't die. And that was worse in many ways." Her mouth flexed as her eyes took on a manic edge, darting here and there. She continued, "A twist at my heart for every story Leliana and Cassandra told me about her. A whip striping my back for every single time someone said her name. The shame inside screaming, 'Confess. Confess. Confess!' All because of that horrible gratitude that nearly drowned me the moment I heard that monster's voice. It wasn't _me_. She died as it had been ordered, but I didn't kill her. The sky didn't bleed because of me."

Tir'alas started rocking back and forth, her expression very nearly mad. Concern growing, Solas shifted to sit next to her, wrapping an arm around her. She leaned into his side with a whimper, saying, "I still wonder now if I _had_ reached her first, if it would have prevented any of this. If taking away his sacrifice would have made any difference."

Solas hummed a negative against her hair, laying his cheek upon her head. "No, he would have just found another soon enough."

Her fingers curled and uncurled in her lap. Then they stilled. She lifted away from him, face once again averted, and said, "And now you'll go away from me. But at least ... at least someone _knows_."

"Ma Tir'alas," said he, cupping her cheek. His fingers touched wetness as his hand gently insisted she look at him. Tears shimmered over the silvery pools of her eyes, but still she met his gaze with a bravery that astounded. He whispered, "Killer, you may be. But cold-blooded? No, that is the very opposite of what you are. Knowing now what darkness you rise out of makes the brilliance with which you burn all the more incredible."

Her mouth opened, but whether in surprise or protest, he couldn't say. "How can you look at me when I cannot even stand to look in a mirror?"

He continued, "Others would have run the moment the chains were struck off. But you stayed. With all the reasons in the world to disappear, you took up the cause."

"From shame!" she finally said, with a twist to her mouth.

Solas smoothed those lips with his thumb, and conceded, "In part. But mostly, because it had to be done. And _you_ do not sit by and deliberate when things need to be done." He smiled at her, willing her to see his sincerity. "A virtue I admire in you. One of many you carry that I wish I had in such abundance."

Her breath puffed against the pad of his thumb as she stared at him, cheeks filling with rosy color. There, growing in intensity, _belief_. Her one hand came up and settled over his where it still rested on her cheek. She turned her face and kissed his palm. Then she lifted the other and laid a kiss in it as well, whispering, "Ar lath ma, vhenan."

 _Vhenan._ The confession of her love sent his spirit soaring. Solas's heart seized in a painful contraction. Yet he couldn't resist teasing, "Are you speaking to me or my hands? Hawke might have mentioned your fascin-"

Tir'alas launched herself at him with a laugh, bright and full. Unreserved. He didn't think he'd ever heard it before. Not truly. Its open joy sparked a glorious ache in his chest. She bowled them both over so she mantled over him, straddling his hips. The press of her there on his most intimate area drew a deep moan from his throat.

Her mouth crashed into his with a fire that burned away all thought. Solas shivered in delight as she framed his face in her hands, hungry lips dancing with his, tongues snaking. His own fingers found her hair, twining its softness around knuckles as he unwove the simple braid that kept it in check.

Breaking away from their kiss before it suffocated them both, Solas let his lips drift down her neck. He laved her pulse point with a swipe of his tongue, tasting the salt of her sweat, the faint medicinal tang of the herbs she constantly came in contact with.

At his ear, she said, "Is this a dream? Are we in the Fade as before?"

He smiled against her neck and replied, "I'm reasonably certain we're awake."

"Please let this be real. I've loved you for so long now, ever since I heard that ridiculous little chuckle of yours."

Solas supplied her one then and scraped his teeth over her collarbones. "Is that so? Odd then that I only ever got to see your disdain."

Then she moaned, throwing her head back while grinding down on his stiffening length. She gasped, "I am not accustomed to dealing with … feelings. Plus I was certain you really, really didn't care for me. So really it was pre-emptive contempt."

"To be fair, you didn't have to do much to aggravate me. The fact that my reaction was so extreme should have clued me in." He laughed and continued, "I think my fascination started the first time you told me 'no.'"

She froze over him and looked into his eyes with wonder. "How did this come to be? Did I somehow cheat destiny and circumvent bad luck to end up here? I must have."

The way she regarded him, as though he were something precious …. His throat closed even as his chest swelled. "Or perhaps neither ever existed in the first place and we are just two fools denying ourselves to keep to the comfortable lonely paths."

She laughed then, warm breath at his ear as she leaned in again to nibble at his lobes. "We are idiots, if so."

His hands fell to her hips, clutching them, sliding around to test the tautness of her backside. The way she rolled into his touch drove him out of his mind. Frantic, he started pulling at her clothes, fingers warring with hers as they both sought to undo the _(too many!)_ clasps that ran the length of the front.

With a feral growl that shot right down to his cock, Tir'alas took the last three fastenings and tore them apart. Buttons and thread went flying as she shucked the garment over her shoulder. Her breast band followed.

Solas laid back and looked at her, glowing in the light of the sun coming through the windows. Under his frank and heated appraisal, she grew shy, arms drifting up to perhaps cover herself. He took those arms in his hands and started to pull them away. "Please. May I see you?"

Swollen lips parting around an intake of breath, she laid both hands on his belly and allowed him this indulgence.

Whipcord and lean, her physique still told stories of graceful carnage, of leaps and spins and flashing knives. Even now, as a mage, her body would probably always hold signs of her early training.

Taut belly rested under well-fleshed ribs while breasts, high and haughty and perfect, heaved under his gaze.

With hands gentled by reverence, he touched her. Starting at the waist, then sliding up to wrap over the cage of bone protecting her heart. Until finally, fingers found those pert globes. He lifted them, feeling their weight and heft under his palms. Forefingers and thumbs rolled nipples until they peaked and hardened.

Her eyelids fluttered shut as she arched her back, bending in a way that seemed almost impossible to him. Sitting up, Solas took one of those peaks into his mouth, moaning at the feel of her skin, the texture of pebbling areola around the nub of nipple. Tir'alas panted as his teeth, tongue and lips worried at her breast.

Her hands couldn't seem to decide where they wanted to be. They brushed along his eartips, his scalp, down his back. Each new sensation made him buck against her, heightening the throbbing of his groin until it became painful.

With a whine, Tir'alas pulled at his tunic. Chuckling, he let her pull it off him, though the tail of it made it difficult. He had to lift further up. Then a thought struck him and he took advantage of the situation to roll them forward so she lay beneath him. Discarding the tunic, he captured her mouth once again, tasting her even deeper than before.

Tir'alas's fingers busied themselves at his breech-lacings. His breath hitched as they brushed against his manhood. Then again as she repeated the motion, with deliberation.

Solas trembled and looked down at her mischievous smile. "You are asking for trouble, lethallan."

"Indeed, I am," she said, voice soft and husky. Her hand stole into his breeches and gave him an impudent squeeze.

His hips rolled in reaction to that momentary rush of bliss. He growled and grabbed her breeches at the hip and yanked them off her in one easy pull.

She gave a breathless squeak as the action pulled her further down the bed, bare legs in the air. Solas grabbed them and laid both over his shoulder as he paused again to admire her, clad in just her smalls and wraps. Slowly, he unwrapped her feet, leaving the strips of fabric where they dropped.

His cock twitched as she squirmed against him. With eager but gentle hand, Solas ran his fingers over every exposed inch of her. The buttery silk of her skin intoxicated him. The ridges of old scars enthralled him. Every jut of bone or twitch of sleek muscle anchored him in the now as nothing else had done.

She _writhed_ under him, made near incoherent by his touch alone. A very male sort of pride swelled within.

Her inner knee begged him to taste, so he did, dipping lower until he laid on his chest between her long legs. The sweet scent of her arousal drew him closer to the apex of her thighs. Moisture darkened an area of the cloth. He laid a single finger there, hooked around the edge, and looked over her mound at her flushed face. He said, "May I?"

She sighed a laugh, then bit her lip, embarrassed. 'I think I will die if you do not."

Solas echoed her laugh as the smallclothes unraveled with a quick, efficient tug. "Then I suppose, I shall. If only to save your life."

Her nectar flowed over his tongue as he laved a path between the petal-soft folds of her. She bucked under him, wild and frenzied. His hands went to her hips to still them as he worked the nub at her zenith in full, flicking circles. A cry burst from her lips, the first of a long string intermixed with no small amount of cursing.

Creative cursing.

At one particularly inventive one, he paused and said, "Really? Queen Anora and a mabari? Disturbing."

"Fen'harel ver na, Solas! Don't stop!" she exclaimed, desperate and sharp.

Amused, he rumbled a laugh against her core.

She shook and convulsed on the end of his tongue until with a shout, she came undone. Her inner walls pulsed against his probing. He lapped up her cream and spread it around her bud. At the renewed stimulation, Tir'alas's back bowed nearly in half. Her hands found his cheeks and words tumbled out of her mouth, "Wait. Wait. I can't-"

Tongue flicking out over her pearl again, he asked, mild, "Can't what, emma lath?"

Her knees drew up and tried to shut him away from her cleft, but he ran his hands along their inner stretch and they fell open again, helpless before his soft insistent touch. She pulled at his shoulders until, with great reluctance, Solas lifted himself away and up over her. She said, "I want you, Solas. But … no more of _that_. It's … too much."

Solas wiped her slick off his cheeks with the back of one hand and said, dark and desirous, "Someday, I hope you will let me do ' _that'_ for the hours it deserves."

He didn't think she could get rosier, but, somehow, she did. She leveled a flat, flustered stare at him. "Really?"

The grin on his face widened to a leer. "Days, even."

She gasped, her knees squeezing his waist. Solas reached down and freed himself of his loose breeches, kicking them off to one side, along with his footwraps. Her eyes tracked him with hunger as he once again nestled between her thighs, his hard length pressed to the molten core of her. Not breaching as yet, but just enjoying the heat of their slick friction. Coating himself in her sweet juices.

Her legs wrapped around his hips as she rocked against his shaft. Visceral pleasure tingled up and down his spine. He rolled back so the tip caught at her entrance, and looked into her eyes. Those beautiful eyes that haunted his every moment, awake or dreaming. "Ready?"

She bit her lip and nervousness flickered in her gaze. "Solas, I've never-I mean-"

Surprised, Solas said, "You are … untouched?"

Nodding, she looked away.

A strange hesitance fell over him and he pulled further away, though his cock lurched at the lack of contact. He watched her close, and saw the fear there. The startling innocence in this one regard. Did he really want to be responsible for tearing away this last veil? Her final deflowering? Wetting his lips, he said, "Perhaps we shouldn-"

"Solas," she said, her eyes catching his. They stole his breath with how they shone with tenderness. Tir'alas said, "Please?" And her legs pulled him back toward her.

Humbled by this gift, he nodded, kissing her all about the neck until she lay breathless beneath him. Angling himself, he eased the tip of his cock into her clenching passage. Tight. It actually hurt a little.

She hissed in his ear as his slow thrust met her barrier. Concerned, he watched her close for a single sign she did not want to continue. Her hands smoothed along his shoulder-blades, holding him as near as she could. Her mouth settled against his, murmuring encouragement.

With a quick push, he burst through that last barrier and filled her. A ragged gasp the only hint that it hurt her. He stopped, fully seated in her depths and stroked her hair, her cheek. His forehead rested on hers and he whispered, trembling, "Ma vhenan. Ma Tir'alas."

After a bit, she wiggled under him, provoking a deep shudder that wracked his whole frame. Withdrawing and advancing, he started a series of gentle, soft thrusts. She moaned with such want that he nearly spilled himself right then and there. It had been so long after all. And she so snug.

He denied himself by only the slimmest measure of control as her rolling hips demanded he speed up. Giving in, his motion grew wilder. Elation filled his heart to bursting, until he felt as though he might fly. Pulling nearly all the way out before driving back in again. Her slick tunnel gripped him, hot as a fever. It threatened to squeeze every drop from him.

Her cries grew in volume until he worried what people below her balcony might think. Muffling her with his mouth, Solas moaned again as the tight coil of his coming release started to unwind, cresting with a blinding bolt of ecstasy that shattered him. Senseless, he fell atop her, just barely holding his own weight up on his shaking arms.

His issue left him in draining waves of rapture. Her legs and arms pulled at him and he let her take his weight, resting his face in the hollow of her throat as he gasped and panted. Languid, he rolled them again so she lay draped across his chest.

Arms circled around her back and held her tight, as though she might disappear. In the wake of their passions, that fear did latch onto him and grow. To have such bliss, only to lose it ….

"Solas?" she asked, voice quavering.

Apprehensive that his thoughts had been stamped upon his face, he glanced down to see her staring at him. He tilted his head. The raw adoration in her gaze dizzied him for a second. His heart lurched.

Then she smirked, and that set his pulse pounding even harder for some reason. She said, "Let me up for just a-"

His arms loosened immediately and she lifted up a little, grimacing as she pulled his pendant free from where it had been lodged between them. Giving it a glare, she tossed it to one side. Tethered to his neck, it swung onto the pillow. Then she rubbed at the indentations in her left breast.

Chuckling, Solas lifted himself up so he could kiss those marks away. The shift dislodged him from her, member sliding free.

She hissed, skin around her eyes crinkling. Worried, he grimaced and looked down. A red trickle ran down her inner thigh with his essences. He looked back up at her. "I'm-I'm sorry, vhenan. I should not have lost control-"

She waved the apology away like it was the most ridiculous thing she'd heard. "As though watching you lose control was not possibly the most erotic thing I'd ever seen."

Fresh heat rose in his cheeks at her bold words. His hand slid down her side and over her swollen and bruised labia. She hissed again, then sighed as magic flowed from his fingertips to heal her. In his mind's eye, he saw burst capillaries close and the wound of her maidenhead seal. No longer whole, but no longer hurting.

Looking at him with wonderment, she kissed him, lips lingering around warm, exchanged breaths. Then she shifted above him and frowned. Her nose wrinkled in the most adorable way and she announced, "I need a bath."

Tir'alas lunged out of the bed and strode on wobbly legs to her bathtub. He watched the measured bounce of her bare buttocks with no little pleasure, biting his lip as a fresh wave of arousal smote him low in the belly.

She paused, peering up at a copper tube suspended from the ceiling. Pulling a chain he hadn't noticed before, she put a hand out as a shower of water poured from that pipe. Astonished, he stood himself and approached, eyeing the mechanism.

Seeing his interest out of the corner of her eye, the Inquisitor said, "Gravity fed from a rain cistern on the roof. Dagna built it for me. Getting rid of the water after is the hard part."

The tub soon filled and she dipped a finger in it, then shivered. She turned to him and said, oddly coy, "I don't suppose you could, um-?" She gave a wiggle of one hand.

He laughed. "Can you not craft fire runes yourself? I seem to recall teaching you that."

She scowled at him and replied, "I tried once and set the tub on fire."

Indeed, now that he looked, scorch marks adorned the porcelain all along the bottom. Another laugh climbed out of his throat, full-bellied and ringing.

"It's not that funny," she groused, arms folding.

With a gesture, he heated the water. "I regret to inform you that it is indeed 'funny.'"

"Fine. Have it your way."

"It takes talent to light stone on fire. One must be most … convincing."

"Oh quiet, you." One long leg went into the tub then the other. She stood in the hot water with a contented sigh and said, holding out a hand, "Join me?"

"I would be delighted." He stepped in and soon they settled, sitting with her back to his chest. He watched the play of her shoulder-blades as she scrubbed her skin with a cloth and soaproot. Her hair she washed with perfunctory quickness and dunked to rinse.

On a narrow shelf next to them, an array of small, expensive-looking bottles and wrapped rectangles lay. None of which looked like they'd ever been opened.

Solas picked one soapbar up and read the Orlesian label, "'Savon Exquis. Muguet du Bois.'"

"Don't use that. I'm pretty sure it has bird droppings in it."

Setting it back down with a touch of haste, he said, "Really?"

"You'd be surprised what noble ladies will put on their faces. On their skin. No, not surprised. Appalled." She turned a little to look at him with one grey eye. She sighed. "And don't get me started on the really, really pricey ones from Tevinter. I sent them back. Dorian protested, until I explained to him how soap is made. And what sort of animals have the best fat for it."

Intuition leapt the gap and he said, queasy and horrified, "Is it the sort that walks on two legs and talks?"

Her head bobbed. "Funny what a little bar's worth of status symbol really costs."

He banished the disturbing thought as he leaned farther back into the tub. He lifted a knee out of the water, smiling as it brushed her ribs. She started, much to his amusement and shot him a look over her shoulder again. Then her lip curled into a smile and she held out the rag. "Wash my back?"

Taking what she offered, Solas ran the cloth over her slick skin, rubbing the lather around in small circles. Tir'alas leaned forward, curling her spine. A low moan came from her lips at his ministrations. It seemed to vibrate through the water to a certain … appendage.

His interest grew avid as he slowly went lower and her back bowed completely back the other direction. He marveled at her flexibility while his eyes drank in the sight of her breasts rising free of the water.

Her soapy arms went around his neck and her head lay back on his chest. With her mouth so close, he couldn't resist diving in for a kiss, tongue licking across her bottom lip, begging entry.

Granted.

She sucked at his tongue and he moaned at the sensual thrill that ran through his body.

Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her to him, hands roaming where they will across the map of her skin. His fingers made love to the dip next to her hipbones, the hollow at her throat, the sweep of her collarbones. Not an inch went un-worshiped. Soon her body heat rivaled the water, and she gasped and shook against him.

Her hand found him hard under the water and gave him a firm stroke root to tip. How he sighed and clutched her tighter, his own digits flying for her cleft.

Tir'alas sat bolt upright at the first touch, as though shocked by lightning magics. The thought inspired have a dozen ideas, which he tucked away for a time when they weren't both soaked in conductive water.

Her hands on him. His hands on her. Solas soon lost track of rational thought.

Just as he was about to suggest she rise to her knees that he might better please her, a loud voice drifted up the stairwell.

"Lavellan! Are you coming to the war-room or not?" Josephine shouted, heels clacking as she ascended the steps.

In a roar of cascading water, Tir'alas jumped to her feet. "Josie, I'm, uh, in the middle of a b-bath."

Josephine stopped just below the landing. Solas could actually see the top of her head. The woman's voice drifted to them, flustered, "Oh! I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Herald."

Tir'alas winced, then replied, "It's alright. I'll be there in a minute. Start without me."

"Alright. I will see you then." Josephine turned around and went back down the stairwell. They listened in stillness until the slam of the door reached them.

The Inquisitor let out a breath. "Whew. Almost gave our Lady Ambassador an eyeful."

"I was about to see if I remembered the knack of holding my breath underwater for a long period of time." Solas chuckled.

"Then what would you do about your knees sticking out of the water?" She laughed with him, a tinkling bell-like sound. Then she gave a half-frown. "Someday, I'll remember to lock that damn door. But honestly, then I'd have to go down and let people in every five minutes. I'm surprised no one interrupted us sooner, now that I think about it. Creators, what if it had been Sera? I'd have never heard the end of it."

"I would not have cared if she _had_ seen us together. Though I do not wish to share our private affairs with anyone." Solas stood with her, wiping some lather off her cheek. She sighed and embraced him. He held her back, careful and close. "I love you, my heart."

"Emma lath."

After a moment of pounding hearts and thoughts that drifted back toward dark and perilous places, Solas said, words coming out beyond his control, "Losing you would ..."

He couldn't even finish it, wasn't sure how to finish it.

"Few things last. We may die tomorrow and all that. Enough that I have this, have you now. Tomorrow is unimportant," said she, fierce and firm.

Words tried to climb out of his throat, denying her claim. Proclaiming forever. But he knew she was wise. Wiser than he, sometimes, for all that she was quick. Mortal. Sorrow sunk its talons in his heart as he nodded agreement against her cheek.

Then she pulled away and smiled at him. "I should go to that meeting. It's about Crestwood and the Wardens. Hawke'll be there and I love watching Cass when he's around. It's like she forgets how to talk."

Solas laughed, feeling a little lighter. "I have witnessed something of the sort myself. Hero worship, I take it?"

"Of the worst kind." She reached for a nearby towel and handed it to him, before grabbing another for herself. She dried her hair as she walked to her bureau.

Solas put on his own clothes as he found them, surprised at how they'd gotten so scattered. A chagrin filled him at his earlier eagerness, his vigorous enthusiasm. Surely he must be too old for such youthful abandon. As he pulled up his breeches, he turned to just catch her watching him, her lip worried to redness by her teeth. Her face colored as well as she found his gaze.

He huffed a near soundless chuckle, pleased that he affected her to some degree as she did him. Perhaps not as much, for it took all his restraint not to just toss her on the bed and have his way with her for the foreseeable future. Sighing, he sat to wrap his feet again.

The now-clothed Inquisitor moved past him and picked up the stack of hides that had somehow escaped being thrown about during their … diversion. She went to her hiding spot and lifted the stone to reveal a hollow. At the bottom of which sat a simple, black-bound book. The hides went on top, as he'd found them.

Then, she came back to stand before him. Solas drew her near by her hips and rested his forehead at her belly. Her thumbs played at his ears, a tingling distraction. She asked, "Later?"

He smiled against her shirt. "Without a doubt, yes."

"You owe me a story, after all. Quid pro quo, as the Tevinter say." She bounced over to the stairs, pausing to say, "Or a demonstration of this breath-holding trick."

"Why not both?" said he, with raised, lascivious brow. Then he had the visceral satisfaction of seeing her mouth drop open, then snap shut.

She dropped out of sight without another word, leaving him to himself and his thoughts. Never as delightful as her presence.

With a sigh, he wondered how he would get out of her room unnoticed.

In case someone should mention the timing of his departure to Josephine, who then might wonder why her Herald might bathe in his company.

Perhaps the balcony ….

* * *

A/N: Whew. Long and spicy chapter. The smut has landed. It is here. FINALLY. all that build up and they finally get down to bizniz. Hopefully not too cheesy. Though, like Alistair, I do love cheese. WITH A FIERY PASSION THAT BURNS LIKE ... fire? Poot. That fizzled out at the end there. Lol. Hopefully you've enjoyed this chapter as much as I had fun writing it. Anyway, comments and critiques are welcome, as always. Cheers!

Glossary of elvhen:

ma vhenan: my heart

emma lath: lit. my love

Fen'harel ver na: The Dread Wolf take you *snerk*

Tir'alas: the World (add 'ma' at the beginning and it becomes 'my world')

nuvenin: as you wish

ma serannas: my thanks

sathem: shortened, less formal 'thank you'

Ir abelas: i'm sorry

lath'din: Unloved (a very bad insult)

tel: a prefix that negates the following word, like since ir abelas means I'm sorry, then tel'abelas mean I'm not sorry.

ea son: (are)Be you well?

on nydha: good night

on dhea: good morning

da'len: child

da'len'en: children

hahren: teacher/guide/elder

That's all the ones that I can think of that are in this fic so far. I got most of them from fenxshiral's Project: Elvhen, a resource you can all find on ao3 or tumblr. It's pretty awesome, actually. It's as close to making elvhen a working language as I've seen, since Bioware didn't go so far as to invent a whole new one just for their games. I don't blame them. I wouldn't have either. So it's not a proper language, really. It's a cypher. So most likely they run english through a program to spit out 'elvhen'. This means that things like syntax/conjugation aren't consistently addressed, which is fine. That's what fanfic and things like Project: Elvhen are for. And really, fenxshiral did a wonderful job there.

(and is kind enough to give on the spot translations as long as you ask nice.)


	46. Chapter 46

"Why are you so bald?" asked the boy, latest and hopefully last of the Dalish offerings to their demonic shadow killer. Solas looked down at the child and suppressed a stab of annoyance. This one liked to be difficult.

"Creators, Martinet, you can't just ask people why they're bald," said Moineau, sharp and full of rebuke.

"Why not?" said Martinet, insolence incarnate.

"Cause it's rude, that's why." Moineau smacked the boy on the back of the head. "Besides, it's obvious. He shaves. Just like they did to us."

"Nuh-uh. I never seen him shave and he don't get them black, bristly things that itch."

"It is called 'stubble,' and no, I do not get stubble," Solas said. But then both boys pierced him with a look that demanded answers. He felt oddly uncertain before those stares. "Is it not possible that I am nat—"

"He magics it off every night. A single wave of his staff and 'poof!' no more hair," Varric interrupted, as he strode into the rotunda.

Solas frowned at the guess that actually hit closer to the mark than what he'd been about to say. He once had hair, now he does not. A simple change more easily accomplished than a single lightning bolt, if one knew the knack of it. And if the world wasn't static, as it is now. A seeming is just that; a _seeming_. Though the bigger the shift from normative, from the shape one is most accustomed to, the harder it was to stabilize. Some could hold a strange shape forever.

Some could ride the winds as _dragons_.

Or … other things.

The boys rushed Varric with excited shouts. He laughed with them as they hung off his arms. Quite the accomplishment considering Varric only had a couple inches on them. Then the dwarf said to Solas, "They got you on babysitting duty, Chuckles?"

"No. They escaped their minders. I saw no harm in letting them wander for the time being." Solas gave a single magnanimous nod.

"Oh? Don't let the Inquisitor catch you kids. She'll haul you back to the sisters by your ears," said Varric, rumbling a chuckle.

Martinet announced, "I don't like her. She's mean. Like the shems."

"She's not mean. She's firm. You just don't like rules," retorted Moineau. His hair, grown and cut into a pageboy's bob, fanned out as he shook his head.

" _Shem's_ rules!" said Martinet, sticking his tongue out in disgust.

"Don't blame the Inquisitor! You earned those swats for throwing rocks at the cats!" Moineau's face grew ruddy in anger. "She's a great lady. Good and pretty and noble. Cullen says." As though that settled the subject.

"' _Cullen_ says,'" mocked the balder boy. "If she wants to be a shem so bad, someone should cut off her ears!"

They all four froze. Taken aback, Solas took in a huge breath to say, stern, "Da'len!"

At his sharp rebuke, Martinet dropped his gaze to the ground. Even Moineau looked guilty.

Varric muttered, as an aside, "Wow. Nice dad-voice."

A little shocked himself that it worked, Solas said, "Varric, would you mind taking Moineau back to the sisters? I think perhaps Martinet and I should talk."

"Sure thing. I've been meaning to drop in over there anyway. I have a new story for the girls."

The way Martinet looked after the retreating pair, longing and envy, told Solas that the boy really wanted to hear, too. Perhaps not getting to hear would be punishment enough.

Martinet dragged his toe through the dust on the stone floor and shot little uncertain glances up at him. Solas shifted and the boy flinched.

Tilting his head, the apostate said, "I am not going to strike you, da'len."

Doubt suffused the boy's features. He said, sullen, "Oh yeah? Then what _are_ you going to do?"

"As I said, talk." Solas sat at his desk and gestured for Martinet to take the seat opposite. Which the boy did, with ill grace. The apostate considered Martinet over folded hands.

After a long while, where the boy became increasingly fidgety and agitated, Martinet said, "Well?"

"Your accent is Ferelden. Were you born in an Alienage?" A startled double-take confirmed Solas's guess.

"Yeah. What about it?"

"I was only curious. How did you end up with the Dalish?"

Anger and hurt flared in the boy's eyes. Along with no small amount of shame. _Ah, a sore spot._ So strange how all these cast-off children had that in common. Some great wrong they feel they committed in their short, brutal lives.

Martinet said, guarded, "Old Bannon brought us to the wood when the town burned down."

"Is Old Bannon an elf?"

"Yeah, he had the—" The boy gestured to his face, drawing imaginary lines.

"Vallaslin."

"Yeah." The lamplight reflected shards of deep unease in Martinet's eyes.

Solas said, "Is your hatred for the shemlen connected to the town burning down?"

Martinet jerked upright, eyes hard as diamond. He sneered and shrugged. "I'm not sorry."

Yet something in his stare said the opposite, to some degree.

Reserving judgement from expression and tone, Solas said, "I don't believe that is the complete truth, but if you need to talk about it, I am listening."

"And if I don't want to talk about it?" challenged Martinet.

"Then you do not have to." Solas stared back, open and honest. "But some secrets poison the spirit, until you are as one dead. But worse, because the dead are just dead, and so cannot pass on that same hurt to others."

The boy's brows shot up in surprise and disbelief. Then his face shifted to thoughtfulness. His fingers tapped over his bottom lip. "They … they liked to take the little ones. To hurt and play with. Most of us were slippery and quick enough to get away. Just made'em try harder."

"Who are 'they?'"

"Big boys. Shem kids older'n us. I was lucky. I never been caught. Until …." He swallowed hard, narrowed eyes shining with unspent tears. Face twisting in rage, Martinet said, "Well, they got theirs. I laughed and laughed as they burned in that workhouse. But I didn't mean for it to—"

The boy's lips clamped shut. His throat bobbed in held back emotion.

Solas finished for him, "For it to spread to the Alienage."

"Old Bannon grabbed me and a couple other kids, but by then the whole village went up." Martinet sighed, grimacing. "Then the Dalish didn't want me either after they found out what I done. They shaved off my hair and took my name away. I didn't know anyone could do that."

"It's a cruel habit of adults to take advantage of a child's credulity." Solas shook his head. Then smiled at the way Martinet bristled at the word 'child.' "Ah, forgive me. A … young person of limited experience."

The boy's face said he wondered if that was better or not.

Solas said, "So what _was_ your name?"

A small, pleased smile alighted on Martinet's face. "Mum called me Elric. I hate it, though."

Solas chuckled. He stood and gestured for 'Elric' to follow. Climbing the stairs to the library, he called to Dorian, "Ser Pavus, do you perchance know where that tome on Ferelden names might be?"

The Tevinter hummed and threw his crossed ankles off the balustrade. "It's still over with languages and etymologies, no?"

"Ah, found it," said Solas, after a moment of digging in the indicated section. A surprisingly thick book that made a deep thump when he set it down before Martinet. "Can you read?"

"A little," admitted the boy with a frown. "Enough to puzzle out most things."

Solas leaned over him and flipped through page after page until he found the general area. "This is a book of names and their origins. They are listed alphabetically. Find yours."

Bending to the task, the boy mumbled as he read aloud, finger skirting along word after word. Dorian sauntered close to stand at 'Elric's other shoulder. The Tevinter mage started to point, but Solas reached across and pushed that arm down.

With a decisive jab at the paper, the boy looked up at him and smirked, triumphant and proud. Feeling an echo of that himself for the child, he obediently leaned closer and read aloud, "Elric. From Old Avvar: Ælfric. 'Ælf' meaning 'elf' and 'ric' meaning 'ruler or power.'"

" _Some_ one had ambitious parents," said Dorian with a grin.

Solas hummed agreement. He looked down at the thrice-named boy and said, "Names may be given. Or they may be taken for oneself. Or even left behind. But they are not for others to steal away. And think it righteous anyway. In elvhen, your name would be Ha'raj, though it may garner you a few odd looks."

Picking up a nearby quill, Solas wrote the name in flowing elvhen script on a scrap piece of parchment.

"Why?" said the boy, his eyes greedy as he watched the word form on the paper.

"Because there are no kings among the elvhen," replied he, adding after a significant pause, "any more."

He handed the parchment to the boy with the extremely ambitious parents and smiled to see the wonder in his gaze. 'Elric' said, "Do you know a lot about elves?"

"Oh, here we go," said Dorian, wandering away to his nook.

"I know much about the _ancient e_ lvhen, yes. You know I am a mage? Well, when I sleep, I dream of the past. I've seen glories long gone from the world. Flying cities. Elemental beasts bigger than dragons. Battles whose shattered echoes ring through the Fade like the last strains of half-remembered song." Aware his homily had ventured toward the poetic, he shook his head.

The glow in young 'Elric's eyes gratified him. The boy's mouth hung open in awe.

Solas said, "Do you know why what you said about the Inquisitor was so awful?"

Guilt took that light away, but not too far. 'Elric' said, shaking his head, "No. Why?"

"Once we were mighty. Once we held the whole of Thedas in our hands, to sculpt as one does clay. Elvhenan and its greatest city, Arlathan, coasted the rising swells and falling furrows of countless centuries, untouched by death and decay." Solas ran his thumb over the cleft in his chin, gazing inward upon the distant past. Old sorrows that still stung fresh as today's wounds. "But it fell. It fell because even in the midst of all that immortal beauty and grace, there was still room for cruelty. For ugliness and betrayal. And petty evils."

The boy reflected his sadness. "I'm sorry."

About Arlathan? Or about what he said? Or both?

Solas patted him on the shoulder. "I know. But we have to be better. Though others choose not to, and stab at us with their own pains. We have to try to break the wheel. How can we hope to rise again if we cannot be better?"

Blinking, the boy said, "I think I'll stick with Martinet. At least for a while."

Solas laughed. "As you will." And he gestured that the boy was free to go, if he chose.

Stepping toward the stairwell, Martinet spun and said, "Do you think I could come back? And, um, hear some more about the elvhen, Ser Solas?"

With a smile, Solas nodded.

"For someone who professes to not knowing how to deal with children, you do remarkably well," commented Dorian.

"Understanding is slow going still, I'm afraid," confessed he. "I find it seems to go well if I just treat them like tiny adults."

"Say that when they start crying for no discernable reason and won't tell you why," said Leliana, from above.

"So the bloom is off the rose, is it, Spymaster?" called the Tevinter up towards the ceiling.

"No. I still adore them, but it is nice to take a break from them from time to time. It reminds me why I never chose to become a mother myself."

"Typical aunt. Always there to pass out the sweeties, but never there to endure the sticky aftermath." Dorian snorted. To Solas, he said, "That kid just made your day, didn't he. Finally, someone else's ear to pour the tragic tale of Elvhenan into."

"He wants to learn, and by teaching, perhaps I can rectify the many terrible misconceptions floating around out there. Every little bit counts." Solas turned on his heel and walked to the stairs, hands clasped behind his back.

He turned the corner at the bottom to see a welcome surprise. Tir'alas stood and considered his latest mural, hand to chin. The smile came unbidden to his face, along with a warm rush of affection. "Vhenan."

Her answering smile as she turned smote him like the light of dawn. "Solas."

His heart swelled at that sweet sound. He went to stand near, but not too near. Tir'alas raised a brow and took a single step forward, so they nearly touched chest to chest. She wet her lips and his attention magnetized to those bowing, carnadine invitations. He leaned forward, drawn like moth to flame.

Her soft breath puffed into his face as she spoke, "So, word is you've discovered something about those tablets."

She spoke loud, for the benefit of those above, no doubt. Playing her game, he replied, "Yes, Inquisitor. Described as shards in every manuscript, but I didn't know why until I discussed the issue with Enchanter Renaud via raven. The actual shard is within the tablet …."

He stalled as her lips ghosted along his jawline to his earlobe, giving it a nibble that set his nerves ablaze. His hand found her hip and squeezed, thumb sliding under her shirt to touch her warm belly. It twitched under his caress. A couple weeks since they'd become intimate and the hunger never abated. The strength of it dizzied and awed him in the same breath.

His other hand reached for his desk, picking up a glowing remnant no larger than his thumbnail. Handing it to her, Solas declared, "Dagna is busy breaking down the rest and whatever others our scouts find."

She pocketed the find. "We must have quite a stack by now."

"Yes."

Meanwhile, her hands busied themselves at his waist, raking nails up his ribs. He barely felt it through the woolen tunic, but the tingling sensation begged a moan he suppressed with difficulty. Turning her with his grip on her hip, he stepped forward until the back of her legs hit desk.

Tir'alas hopped onto it with nary a sound, thighs spreading to cradle him between her knees. Solas dropped his head to kiss at the base of her throat. A powerful wave of arousal snapped like a whip through him, and he just resisted rolling his hips into her, and rut against her like an animal.

Her voice a tad hoarse, she said, matter of fact, "Good. Any idea what they're for?"

"Renaud and I, _hngh_ ," the soft noise escaped him as her wicked teeth found the sensitive point of one ear. Solas pulled back to shake his head at her in consternation. "—found evidence in that scroll we procured of a possible ancient elvhen ruin far to the west."

Mischief and danger lurked in her blown pupils as she replied, nonchalant, "Let me guess. Near the Hissing Wastes? In a certain oasis?"

"Astute, as always," he said, fingers finding that one spot behind her knee that had proved most … sensitive. Her mouth dropped open in a near soundless sigh. Longs legs wrapped around his waist and yanked him to her. His knee thumped the desk and they both froze.

Tir'alas looked up, eyeing the many balconies where just anyone could look down and catch them in so compromising a position. A satisfied smirk bent her lips again as she again looked deep into his eyes. Her palm slid down and cupped him below, squeezing.

It took every ounce of will not to rip off her breeches right then and have her. Her face flushed as she took in his dark hunger. Her throat bobbed, transfixing him. How he longed to suck the flesh there and mark her. Instead, he settled for catching her lips with his, worrying her bottom lip between his teeth. Just a bare second of such torturous ecstasy, then he pulled away.

She swayed toward him, eyes closed. Then she blinked and focused dazed silver irises on him. Swallowing, she said, "We leave for Crestwood on the morrow. Have you everything you need?"

' _Not hardly,'_ he mouthed, dragging his fingers along her thighs. How she squirmed then. Out loud, he said, "A tent?" _Big enough for two._ But he didn't need to _say_ that part.

"I'll see what I can do," said she, hopping off his desk and stepping around him. He turned to watch the interesting sway of her hips. He hoped that extra little bounce was because him, or rather, _for_ him.

"Vhenan," he said, by way of farewell. He just saw the corner of a saucy smile as the door to the main hall closed. Palming his stiff cock into a more comfortable position, he sighed.

Movement above caught his attention. Dorian peered over the rail and mouthed, ' _You're not fooling anyone.'_

Frowning, Solas shrugged. What concern was it of the Tevinter's? He went back to his research with visions of her pulling at his imagination. The taste of sweet breath mingling with his.

A pleasant distraction while the rest of his mind worked through yet another tedious translation.

* * *

 **A/N: Again, a long delay before I could post this chapter. Had to go visit the fambly for a few days. Anyway, here is more silly Solavellan stuff! Hope you enjoy. All comments and critiques are welcome, as usual.**


	47. Chapter 47

The winter wind chased them down the Frostbacks, touching the yellowing grass with the first wilting rime. Autumn fast drew to a close, to make way for the death of the year. Solas looked at the grey skies and wondered if they would open during this expedition.

Tir'alas walked a little ahead of him, stopping occasionally to pull foliage from the ground. Sometimes it went in the bag at her belt, sometimes to her mouth. One such plant lay in her palm now. She pulled off a leaf and chewed it in deep contemplation as Sera spoke to her in rapid, jumbled sentences.

The Inquisitor said, "You'd probably have better luck talking about this with Dagna."

"Wot? Widdle?" Sera sneered. "Wot's that short arse going to know?"

Tir'alas raised a brow, and shrugged. "More than me. I didn't learn creative ways to set myself on fire or blow things up. Not with alchemy, anyway. It takes a lot of persuasion to make herbs explode."

"That firecracker in the basement has a reputation for it," said Varric, from his position at point. Bianca rested on one broad shoulder.

"Really?" asked Sera, eyes narrowing in intrigue. "Still. Dagna don't just do stuff for anyone, yeah?"

"You'd be surprised. Get her interested and she'll probably go a month without sleep to get it done," Tir'alas said. She offered the blond a leaf, but Sera's nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Ew. I can't believe you eat that right off the ground." The archer sniffed. "Prolly still got bugs on."

"Not _on_ the ground. _In_ the ground. The dirt gives it a nice gritty texture," teased she, crunching down on another leaf. Sera feigned retching. The Inquisitor turned and held one out to Solas, who took it, bemused.

"What is it?" asked Solas, turning it over to study the veins on the velvety triangular leaf.

"Sheep sorrel."

" _Sheep_ eat it? Double ew," harped Sera, face pulling into a grimace. Then she grinned. "Ha, ha! 'Ewe', get it?"

Varric groaned. The dwarf's intolerance for puns was well known.

"That's not why they call it that." Tir'alas rolled her eyes and said, to Solas, "It's good."

He bit into it and his brows shot up at the sharp flavor. Like candied green apples and lemon. A surprisingly pleasant combination. Tart and light. He popped the rest into his mouth and chewed it into mash. It made his gums tingle. "Intriguing."

"Varric?" offered the Inquisitor, after handing Solas another one.

"No, thanks. I have my field rations." Varric looked ahead, worry and tension in the line of his shoulders. Their errand to meet Hawke and his Warden friend must be taxing the dwarf if he couldn't even find it in himself to banter.

Tir'alas dropped back to say to Solas, as a muttered aside, "I suppose I should mention that it's mildly toxic."

Solas paused in his chewing to regard her askance. "Really?"

Seeing his uncertainty, she said, with a smile and wave of the leafy stalk in her hand, "Oh, don't worry. You'd have to eat twice what I have here to even start feeling sick."

"Good to know," he said, swallowing the remainder of what he had in his mouth. He declined another.

As they walked, she continued to forage, eating things seemingly at random, but she'd pass back some she obviously thought he'd like. She guessed with surprising acumen, as he soon became eager for the next offering. Blackberries, wild clover, walnuts. Each came with a short explanation. Her knowledge continued to surprise and delight him.

Until now, he hadn't realized just how often she'd done this. Solas usually spent most of a trek within his own thoughts. He'd watched her pick herbs without really watching her. Now every detail drew his eye.

With head turning on her graceful neck, Tir'alas scanned the greenery. Her hands reached out to touch foliage and bark with an appraisal bordering on fond.

He'd once asked if she kept a garden.

 _The whole world is her garden._

The thought sent a chill of awe through him.

"You spent a lot of time in the wilderness, Solas," Tir'alas said, when her wandering eye met his wonderment. "Had you no herblore?"

"Some. More since I read your book. Even before, I could usually spot a tuber or onion, and knew to stay well away from nightshade and yew. Mostly, I hunted. Or fished for my meals. Everything else I traded for. Like bread," he replied. "When I got hurt, I used my more … arcane talents."

Sera snorted. "Can't just magic up some food?"

Solas hummed in amusement as the others laughed. _Oh, Sera. Magic_ is _food. Or was once, anyway._

Hunger had come as a rude surprise after his long sleep. His physical body needing physical sustenance? Logical, he supposed, in this broken world. Without an energy source as abundant and available as the Fade, his body must adapt or die. Much as Cole had.

The first time he'd brought down a halla and its rich blood and meat had flowed over his tongue and into his empty, aching stomach had filled him with much gratitude that his other seeming had such … good instincts.

Sometimes, he worried just how much his body had changed to surv—

"That's hardly a good diet," said the Inquisitor. "You need green things to keep the humors balanced. Vitamins, minerals. Fibrous vegetables for cleansing the bowels." She tutted at him with a shake of her head.

Solas affixed her with a wide smile. "I am ever willing to learn, vhenan."

The endearment made her flush, to his great pleasure.

Looking back and forth between them, Sera huffed and threw her hands in the air. " _Elves_." As though that illustrated her every frustration.

A tingle in his spine made his head turn toward the fortress that appeared around the road bend. "I feel the presence of one of the elvhen artifacts."

Tir'alas halted in front of him and held the Anchor aloft. "There's a rift nearby, too. It's pulling at me. Smaller than the underwater one."

Varric said, "The Mayor of that town told us bandits had overrun Caer Bronach, but do we really have time—?" A pained anxiety lit the dwarf's rugged features.

"We need to close the rift under the lake, Varric. Or the undead will keep rising and eventually destroy that village." Tir'alas shook her head. "I know Hawke is waiting. He can wait another day or two. If we don't handle this now, who knows what this area will look like come spring."

"Yeah, I guess you have a point." Varric slumped.

They waited a day for the expeditionary forces to occupy the bandit-free fortress of Caer Bronach. Then drained the lake and closed the rift beneath it. The spirit of Command in the drowned town intrigued him. He wondered if it would mind if he spoke to it some night in the Fade.

* * *

The village of Crestwood hailed them as heroes when they returned. Gave them shelter in one of the abandoned houses. Varric snored in the upper room while Sera had gone out reveling with the remaining villagers. Meanwhile, the Inquisitor and he—

"Are you trying to … _pamper_ me?"

"Would you let me?"

Another grape glided over his lips as he smiled, head in her lap before the blazing hearth. He answered, "I just might, though be warned; I may have to return the favor."

Tir'alas pressed and, obedient, he took the fruit between his lips and chewed. She said, "Perhaps now that I'm aware, I want to make sure you eat better."

"Are my eating habits so appalling?"

"Too much red meat and sweets," she chided, a playful whimsy in her tone.

"She says as she feeds me another grape," he teased back, nipping at her fingers which had ventured too close. She gasped in mock-fear, then again when he took each finger into his mouth and licked the juices from the pads and between.

"Fresh fruit is good for you. Grapes in particular are good for the heart." She picked one up, and gave it a light squeeze. It burst, expelling its rich, purple essences on her fingers. "These are a little over-ripe, but they do the job just fine. I saved them from the wine-press in the village."

Solas watched as she took a turn licking the grape juice from her digits. A thrill ran down to his groin. A tiny smear of purple sat at the corner of her mouth. He reached up and started to clear it away with his thumb, but then—

Then he cupped the back of her head and drew her down. His tongue flicked out over that tiny stain, lapping, before their lips met in earnest, parting, sharing the flavor of the last grape harvest of the year between them. Everything tingled, from the tips of his ears to his curling toes.

Breaking for air, they both stared at each other, dizzy and flustered. Solas managed, "Forgive me, vhenan. You had a little—"

She dove back in with startling ferocity. What had been a mere kindling burst into bonfire. Soon, he'd maneuvered her to lay in the hollow of his belly, spooning. Greedy fingers flew under clothes, grasping for any skin they could discover. His mouth pressed just under her ear, on her pulse. Hand found breast and squeezed. She arched her back and rocked her ass against his cock.

He hissed as he rocked back into her, the pressure maddening. Between her waist and the bedrolls, his other hand slid between trews and twitching stomach, finding her slick cleft and diving into it. She quivered and flexed as his fingers found her bud and ran little circles around it.

His hand left her breast and grappled her hip, pulling her back into his aching manhood. Resting his head back on his bedroll, he started formulating a plan to divest her of her garme—

With a bang, the cottage door opened. They both froze as laughing, singing Sera stumbled in, staggering. Something sloshed, filling the air with the scent of mulled wine. On her way to wherever she planned to pass out, the blonde nearly tripped over their feet. They neither of them reacted. Solas let his body go limp in feigned sleep. He felt Tir'alas do the same.

A string of curses came out of Sera's mouth as she righted herself and continued on to the stairs. "— _Piss!_ Bluddy elfy elves wiv their cuddly-wuddliness. Put some lizards in their boots—aw, they don't wear'em. Fine, find another spot. Make it extra creepy. Wiv leeches maybe."

With a noisome burp, Sera fell at the first landing and didn't get back up.

Then she started snoring.

A dry huff of exasperation came out of the Inquisitor's mouth as she turned her head to look at him.

He chuckled at her nape.

Tir'alas grumped, "Damn it, Sera. It was just starting to get good."

"It is getting increasingly more difficult to gain a modicum of privacy for our … liaisons."

She growled in frustration, buttocks bumping into his erection in need. Then she stopped and said, "I wonder if we could still …."

Filled with a similar urgency, Solas rolled her trapped clit between his fingers and whispered, "That depends. Just how quiet can you be?"

"I used to be a rogue," she said, turning a sly grin to him. Then she flung the blankets over them both.

Turned out, she could be _very_ silent.

He found it was _he_ who struggled, in that regard.

In the morning, Solas woke to find the Inquisitor quietly sitting next to him, reading one of his books. A cup of steaming liquid in her other hand. Parched, he reached for it.

"You're not going to like it," she warned, but still handed the cup to him.

She was correct. Twice as bitter as kaffa, it did little to wash away the dryness. He choked the swallow down and said, " _What_ , by the Void, is that?"

"Buckwheat and rue." She took it back and drank, face pulling into a sour scowl.

"And I am not the only one who doesn't like it, I see," he commented.

"Yes, well. It serves its purpose."

Curious, he asked, "And that is?"

"It's a preventative. You know, because this looks like it might become a habit," she said, gesturing between them and giving a significant nod toward his crotch. "To keep seedlings from taking root."

His brows climbed up a notch. "Oh."

Solas hadn't even thought about that.

His expression must have given that away, for she frowned and said, "Did it really not occur to you?"

His mouth opened to tell her that he was sterile, but that truth might lead to other questions. Ones he didn't feel equipped to answer; How was he sure? Had this theory been put to the test? How often? With whom?

A path of lies that would get increasingly tangled. But he could not just say, ' _In ancient times, the elvhen did not have children, not in the sense that those born wholly of the earth did. The act is a mere magical, highly enjoyable, catalyst. We touch the earth but lightly.'_

So he went with the other truth. "Honestly? No."

"Surely I don't have to explain how babies are made," she teased.

He frowned. "I am well aware of the mechanics of it."

Her lips curled in winsome appreciation. "You manage the … _mechanics_ very well. Odd that the consequences escape you."

Solas coughed, and tried to hide the flash of pride that swam to the fore. And the chagrin at her light rebuke. Then, he said, "If you would be more comfortable if I didn't …."

She held up her cup. "That is what the tea is for. I don't mind. I would just rather not complicate further an already complicated life with da'len'en romping around my feet."

"Very wise."

Laughing, Tir'alas said, "Can you imagine me trying to close rifts with my belly out to here?" She made a circle in front of her waist, and laughed again. "Ridiculous."

And suddenly, he could imagine it, and it filled him with terror and sadness. Terror for what could still come to pass, and sadness that he'd never be able to give her that, if she so wished.

She could never have children … with _him_.

Solas hid this away under a smile and agreed, "Yes. Ridiculous."

He meant himself.

Varric popped his head in and said, stern, "We going, or what?"

"Yes, Varric. Let us go meet with Hawke and his mysterious Warden friend." Tir'alas rolled her eyes as she stood and helped Solas gather their bedrolls together.

Varric went to the stairs and shook Sera's shoulder. "Up and at'em, Buttercup."

She unwound from her tight fetal curl with a grumble and a snort, hair strewn every which way. Blinking in abject confusion, Sera mumbled, "S'not Tuesday. Piss off."

Varric, who spoke fluent hangover, said, "New chantry law; Every day is Tuesday now."

"Oh," she replied, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. The archer yawned and moved to get ready. It took a full two minutes before drunken gullibility gave way to a frown. "Wait, wot? Every day is Tue—?"

"Go find a rain barrel to dunk your head, Sera. We move in five," Tir'alas interrupted, standing after wrapping her feet. She bounced in place a little to settle everything, then reached for her staff. She also grabbed the other where it leaned on the wall next to hers and handed it to Solas.

He nodded in thanks, sliding it into its baldrick. Her fingers wove together with his for a moment and gave a warm squeeze. Solas closed his eyes at the tight, tingling sensation that pulled in his chest.

Sera returned, soaked to the waist. She clearly took the Inquisitor's advice to heart. Running fingers through her damp tangle of hair, Sera said, "D'you think Hawke brought Isa? She's fun. Always good for a laugh, that one."

"I don't know," Tir'alas replied, with a shake of her head. She led the trio out to where Varric waited at the town gate before continuing, "Though I doubt there will be much laughing at this meeting."

Her words proved prophetic as the Warden named Stroud spoke of Callings and the Grey Wardens' plans to stop something they could not possibly hope to understand. Something no sane mortal, or _im_ mortal, should meddle with. Rooted so deep in the weaving of the world that to shake it may unravel … everything.

Enough that it had been done once already. Long ago.

It didn't help that the stink of the Blight hung on the man like a cloak, evident in his sallow skin and jaded, dead eyes.

Unsettling. Like all these modern tidings.

* * *

 **A/N: Again, I apologize for the tardiness of this chapter. I've been participating in MEBB2016 and it's eaten my time away. Sorry. But here's a new chapter just for yous guys! Because I love you. Hopefully, it won't delay the next one. No promises, because it might be delayed if I have to pinch hit for more artists before the deadline, but I'll try. Till next time!**


	48. Chapter 48

The wrathful shouts rang through the great hall, attracting the attention of all the hangers-on and courtiers. In fact, it had pulled most from their various haunts to hover along the mezzanine as well. Solas stood next to Dorian and Vivienne as they looked down over the crowd toward the closed door to Josephine's office and the war-room beyond.

He couldn't make out any of the actual words, but the sharp and acrimonious tone said much.

 _Our Inquisitor is very angry._

"I wonder what happened," said Dorian, twirling his moustache.

"Perhaps they attempted to make her wear a dress," offered Vivienne, dry and bitter.

"Oh, so we should expect a murder or two?" Dorian laughed.

Solas frowned. "You make light. It could be something very dire indeed. Corypheus could be on the move while you stand here and mock her."

Vivienne said, "Oh, darling. You really are in too deep, aren't you."

Solas stiffened and shot her a look of recrimination. "And you should be wary of pulling the tiger's tail. There's a large set of teeth at the other end." To drive his meaning home, he points toward where the shouting is coming from.

Dorian glanced down at something somewhere near Solas's collar and back up again, biting his lips together. Quelling mirth, if the dancing light in his eyes could be believed.

Solas tilted his head and almost demanded answers when the door down at the other end of the hall slammed open.

Belatedly and with embarrassment, he thought of the darkening bruise just below his collarbone. It must be visible. He tugged his collar up as people start to walk out of that door.

Cullen came out first, drawn and tense. Then Tir'alas, face blank but for the fury shining from her eyes. Her hands clenched into tight, quivering fists at her sides. Leliana sidled out after her, half a step behind. Her hood obscured her face, but something in the way she moved made Solas suspect perhaps she was to blame.

Rage poured off the Inquisitor in palpable waves, buffeting all who attended. She paused at the door that led to the library staircase and looked over them all. Her voice, menacing, quiet but carrying, broke the hush, "Do none of you have work?"

As though it broke some spell, the crowd scattered, suddenly remembering errands that took them elsewhere. The great hall emptied. Even Dorian and Vivienne turned to look out the balcony of the mezzanine and pretended to have some urgent gossiping to do.

Tir'alas gestured Leliana through the door she held open, with a sarcastic flip of one wrist. The Spymaster ducked her head as she went through.

Drifting toward the empty library, Solas peered toward the stairs in question, waiting for them to reappear. He ducked into an alcove as they came into sight and ran his finger over shelved tomes as though looking for a particular volume. They did not spot him as they turned and went further up to the rookery, all in strained silence.

He slipped over to lean at the wall below them as they spoke—

" _This_ is how your agents handle things, is it, Leliana?" Tir'alas hissed, low and filled with spite. Solas had to strain to hear the words.

"Do not forget that you sanctioned the assassination at the war table," retorted the Spymaster.

"If I'd known how incompetent your clippers were, I'd have chosen to send a negotiator instead. Or one of Josie's fucking 'ambassadors'," growled the Inquisitor.

"My people are not incompetent. _Your_ people chose to stay in perilous proximity to a city known to be unfriendly to Dalish elves."

"That's it, isn't it? _My_ people. It's always going to be the elves' fault that some human lordling decides to put the boot in. 'Oh, they should have just moved.'" Her tone mocked and jeered. Then it sharpened to a deadly edge. "You read the reports. They came at _my_ people with lies and, then, with fire, arrow and axe. Slaughtering all of them. Men, women … and _children_. A whole Clan gone for the sake of some _shem's_ ambition."

The Spymaster stayed silent. Solas wondered if any guilt at all ate at her heart. Tir'alas's wrath seemed to snap and writhe on the air.

"So, yes. Your people are incompetent. Or they just don't care enough to read the damn atmosphere before sticking the mark. But why should they care, right? It's just some knife-ear drifters," Tir'alas spoke, sounding thoroughly disgusted. "Your blades don't think. They don't ask questions. They clearly have no idea how to hide the deed. If it wouldn't cause even more trouble for the rest of the Clans, I'd …."

Her words trailed off.

Leliana said, "You'd _what_ , Inquisitor?"

Savage came the reply, "I'd raze Wycome to the ground. Two-no, _five_ dead for every one of mine. Blood for blood."

The Spymaster gasped. "You can't use the Inquisition to—"

Something in the soft, slithering steps above silenced her. A look, an expression of murderous intent perhaps. Tir'alas said, voice little more than a harsh whisper, "Can't I? This letter. Keeper Deshanna's last words. I wonder if it had not been found and delivered to me directly if I'd even have known the extent of your bungling. Or if it would have just been swept neatly under the carpet like the burning of the Alienage in Halamshiral, in which I know you had a hand. _Bards._ "

She spat that last with boundless contempt.

Leliana's silence gained a shocked quality. After a long pause, she said, "I would _never_ have kept this from you. If you feel you must strike me, then do it. Not with words. With flesh. Or steel, if you prefer."

"And feed your shame? Justified or not, your guilt isn't going to bring my dead Clan back. Nor such small vengeance even start to make restitution. I am not going to make it that easy for you." Something crackled like the crumpling of parchment. "' _They are coming for us.'_ Let _that_ ring in your ear, Leliana. Imagine her fear as she scrawled this note. Her need to get word out as the blade dropped over and over again, taking the lives of everyone dear to her. Knowing she was next. Or perhaps _last_."

"Inquisitor, I—"

Tir'alas interrupted, "Hear those words and know that someday it could be _you_ with quill in hand, waiting for the end as your world burns around you."

With that, she strode away from the Spymaster, feet striking stone like a deathknell. She paused at the top of the steps and said, "Fuck your Game. And fuck your sorry excuse for assassins. Leave the knife-work to people who care enough to do the job right."

"Like who?" said Leliana, voice much too speculative for Solas's tastes.

"The fucking Crows! Or whoever else won't make a sorry mess of things mincing about worrying about whose cousin is fucking which Duke." Something hoarse and brittle entered her tone; it broke on the last syllable with a ragged inhale. Then she resumed stomping down the stairs. As her stiff back crossed into his line of sight, she never once turned as she stalked down and out the door that led to the mezzanine.

Undiscovered, Solas pondered as the Spymaster above shuffled her papers with a sad sigh. A muffled wet sound followed, along with a couple sharp sniffles. Did the formidable Leliana weep? Could she bend enough to feel something other than antipathy?

Dorian reentered the library at just that instant and saw him. He hailed, "Ah, Solas. There you are."

Gesturing for the Tevinter to keep his voice down far too late, Solas shot a look upward in hidden chagrin. Heat crawled up the back of his neck at the thought that the Spymaster now knew he'd been privy to her dressing down. And that he'd been spying.

Giving a soundless sigh, he said, "Yes, Dorian?"

Shaking his head in confusion, the mage said, "Ah, you know … ahem, I've quite forgotten what it was I needed from you. I happened to pass our Lady Herald out in the hall and …." His mouth faltered and twisted in empathy. "Heavens, her _expression_. I mean, there's anger. And there's sadness. But I've never seen them volley on a face before, back and forth. Ah, now I remember. I was hoping you could help with that manuscript. You know the one. Firth's ' _Constructs and Golems_ — _'"_

Leliana interrupted, calling from above, "Solas. May I speak with you?"

The two mages looked up the stair to see the hooded woman staring back, eyes dry but reddened. Solas nodded, then turned to Dorian. "We can go over it tonight at supper."

The Tevinter gave a weak smile and said, "Tavern?"

Solas nodded once more and then turned to head up to the rookery. Dorian's footsteps receded as he left the building altogether. The Spymaster gestured toward a chair, then moved to look out a window. Solas sat and then waited.

The silence grew and grew until he said, "So. Clan Lavellan is no more."

Leliana winced, what little he could see of her mouth twisting. "Perhaps I _did_ choose the wrong blade."

"Perhaps."

A touch of some muddled emotion touched the woman's eyes as she turned to look at him. "I've never seen her weep before."

Her expression said she hardly believed Tir'alas capable.

Solas frowned. "And now you know she isn't an emotionless statue. Does that change the way you perceive her?" Not really a question. Of course it had.

Leliana crossed her arms. "I would not have her believe the reason her Clan is dead is because they were … _inconsequential_ to me."

"Weren't they?" he asked, sharp and incisive. Not accusing, just looking for the truth of it.

She just stopped a snarl from curling her lip. "Despite what you may think-what _she_ may think, not all humans devalue nonhumans. I have eyes. I _see_ the injustices and horrors that plague the world. For all the terrible things I've done in the name of the Divine, I've done just as many to right what wrongs I could."

"The Alienage at Hilamshiral?"

"Celene's mistake. I was complicit after the fact when the Divine asked me to … soften the impact of its effect on the people, both human and elven. It was threatening to turn into full class on class warfare. Nobles were demanding that every Alienage in Orlais be barred and burnt." Leliana shuddered. "It's not the first time it's happened. It is only through the Divine's mercy that more elves didn't die. That elven blood didn't run rivers in the streets."

Bitterest anger rose in him. ' _The Divine's mercy.'_

That the People had to depend on such pained him to the core. He kept all hint of it off his face.

"Nothing the elves have ever done deserves _that_." She gave a strangled sigh. "Her Clan, her family is dead. A tragedy that she lays at my feet. And I find I cannot blame her. So how do I tell her how very sorry I am? Solas, tell me. You know her best of all of us."

She held a hand out toward him, palm up, beseeching.

Moved, he replied, "Have you thought about simply telling her thus?"

"Do you really believe she'd let me? Now?"

Solas gave it its due consideration. With a hum, he said, "She is more reasonable than you give her credit for. I know you do not spend as much time with her as her inner circle. Out in the field. As a comrade. You see the results of her actions, but not the execution. The whys and hows are abstracts unless you witness them in the moment. Her fury burns hot, sharp, but fast. She wields it as a surgeon does a blade. Just long enough to be useful, then discarded."

Leliana's face waxed pensive. "So then you believe her receptive?"

"I believe that once the anger cools, she will see that harboring an animosity toward her own Spymaster is an ill-advised thing. But if I were you, _I'd_ seek _her_ out, for she is too stubborn to be the one to reach out." Solas smiled to himself. "I will go to her first. Not for you, but for her. Her grief should be shared."

Sighing, Leliana looked back out the window. "Thank you for your advice, Solas. I hope you can console her."

 _So do I._

* * *

 ** _A/N: And I'm back! At long last. MEBB is wrapping up for the year and I am feeling the first tingles of renewed need to expunge my inner demons in the tap-tapping of computer keys. I'm so sorry for the long wait. Here's a new chapter of my two favorite elfy nerds. And now I hope to maintaining the schedule to at least one per week. Oh, gimme some feedback if you like. Cheers!_**


	49. Chapter 49

Solas found her in the kitchens. In her handmaiden guise. Her hands pulled knife through vegetables, slicing thin and sure. Next to her, the small pot simmering over the fire burbled gentle noises. It smelled of venison and seasonings.

He looked around, surprised no one else stalked the kitchens at this time of day.

"Cook and the others are resting. Before the dinner rush," came her softened voice around pale bonnet. It even carried a faint orlesian accent. Just enough to throw off her natural Dalish cadence. The onions and carrots on her cutting board went into the pot. She gave it a stir before turning to look at him, redness on the edge of her grey irises.

A soft smile pulled at her mouth. "What gave me away?"

Solas returned her smile with one of his own. "Varric, actually."

"That dwarf can be infuriatingly observant." Yet no vitriol touched her words. She turned back to pick up her knife and clean it on her apron.

He chuckled. "He thinks you do it to hear what your people really think of you."

Giving a snort, she said, "I do it because I can't abide having a-a servant. I can feed and clothe myself, _thank_ you very much."

Then she paused, staring at the wall before her as she wiped down the cutting board. "I also wanted to make sure they actually fed the da'len'en. Which, to my great surprise, they do. My meager wages as 'Claudia' see to keeping them clothed. Appropriately. Not that silly shit Leliana would dress them up in."

At the woman's name, the Inquisitor bristled, hands clenching on rag and board. Then the sharp tang of saltwater filled the air, a harsh counterpoint to the aromatic stew on the fire. She said, "Are you sure you didn't come down here to make sure I didn't poison them all?"

"I hardly think even you would punish all of us for the Spymaster's mistake. I don't even think you'd punish her." He kept his tone light, cajoling.

Tir'alas made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

Solas came around the table and put a hand over hers, turning her a bit so he could put his forehead to hers. She closed her too bright eyes before his knowing stare, filled with the sympathy he couldn't show before.

Damning himself for being a liar and a fool, Solas touched her face.

Would that he'd had the strength to tell her before what befell her Clan. But honestly, even _he_ hadn't believed it would affect her so … so _greatly_. Given circumstances.

Tears welled out from between her closed eyelids and rained down her cheeks. She whispered, "Why? _Why_ am I so sad? They hated me. The ones that remember little Alas anyway. When I returned from the Red Lady, a supposed 'failure' in the healing arts, none would keep my company. I spent a mere few days out of every year with them, yet they were always glad to see me go. Even after I'd won my vallaslin as a ranger."

"Are ties so easily renounced, vhenan?" he asked, cupping her face in his hands. His thumbs traced lightly over her blood writing, or would, if cosmetic didn't cover them at present. Or, at least, he thought it some sort of cosmetic. The smooth dryness of her skin belied that assumption though, pricking his curiosity. "Or, perhaps, even though they hated or feared your differences, that did not mean _you_ had to hate _them_. Do you feel as though you hated them?"

She appeared to give it a great deal of thought. "No. I believed their hate justified."

"' _Believed_?'" he stressed the past tense.

Tir'alas opened her eyes to gaze at him. "There is a shift happening, deep inside. Like I've been slowly waking up. Things I once thought and believed seem absurd now. Certain choices I made before, I know I would make differently if pressed again."

Blinking, he said, slow, "Can you pinpoint when it started?"

Confusion rose from beneath her steady regard and she replied, "I'm not sure. I go too far back and there's clear and distinct purpose guiding my hand, as it had since I took over my office. Not far enough and I feel the doubt stealing my underpinnings. I don't have clear memories between the two."

Taking in a deep breath, Solas said, "The Conclave explosion."

She frowned and straightened, brows creasing as she considered her gloved left hand. "Do you think the Anchor changed me? Do you think that whatever happened in the Temple of Sacred Ashes changed the essential _me_?"

A sick hollowness grew in his belly. He took a small involuntary step back. If it was true—"It's … possible. The orb is a very powerful artifact. There's no telling what fringe affect it could have on someone who came in contact with it."

She seemed to sense his sudden and deepening distress. "Solas?"

Tucking away the fear for the moment, Solas offered her a smile and deflected, "Your grief for your Clan is only natural. It is no abomination to weep when we feel loss. To feel sorrow when something is sorrowful."

Opening her mouth to ask the question in her eyes, Tir'alas stalled as kitchen workers started filing back into the room. Her hands swiped cheeks to fling away tears before they saw and she reached over to take the pot from the fire, filling a bowl she'd had waiting close at hand.

Solas nodded to workers who bowed and curtsied as they shuffled past.

The full bowl went on a tray with a hunk of bread and only then did she speak to him, orlesian accent once again skewing her timbre, "Ser, my mistress will receive visitors once more after the seventh bell. Good eve."

Then she took her 'mistress's food and scurried away, steps light and swift as any true servant.

As he wandered out the other door and into the cold breeze, he tried to drag his thoughts away from those perilous ponderings that threatened to drown him.

Had the Anchor twisted his vhenan's very soul into some fractured mirror of his?

Could that explain why his and her reasonings sometimes seemed so eerily similar?

Is that why he felt so drawn to her?

 _Is that why I love her?_

Surely even he did not have such a huge ego. Yet, a derisive and cutting voice deep within told him, yes, his ego could indeed be that huge. Bile flooded his mouth, along with a heavy, taxing dose of shame.

He did this.

If that had indeed happened, only he could be to blame. And worse, if the Anchor affected her behavior, then it seemed all too possible that it had drawn _her_ to _him._ Stolen her autonomy. Forced her to think she desired him, _loved_ him when it was his damn Anchor all along.

'If' started to sound more and more like certainty. Solas bit his tongue on the keen that threatened to spill from his throat.

He thought of tangled limbs and heaving pants and silken flesh. Longing, desire, whispered promises in tongues new and ancient. The exquisite easing of the burden of ages of loneliness. His own wishful thinking made real in the deformation of her spirit.

And he almost retched. Depraved. Such a thing was tantamount to rape, if it proved true. But he clung to that 'if,' like a man holding tight to a lifeline in a storm. He could not bear the alternative.

The bell in the guard tower tolled, startling him. Six times it rang and his eyes shut as he counted them. One hour. She expected him to come to her in one hour. It seemed like less than a moment to him. Not nearly enough time to compartmentalize all this pain into neat little boxes so he could possibly hope to hide it from her. And hide it, he must.

For she was never to blame.

She didn't deserve rebuke or punishment or rejection, as it would surely be perceived if he spurned her now. Yet, how could he tell her? The rest of it, the _whole_ of it, would surely then come spilling out, and then his mission—

 _My damn mission._

Imperiled by his stupidity once again.

What a poor custodian of the People's future he's turned out to be.

The best choice would be to cut it off.

However it came about, he couldn't deny that he loved her. And for her sake, he'd stand fast and look her in the face. And try not to be crushed under the terrible weight of this mistake.

One of the worst by far.

* * *

"Her network is fairly large. I clearly remember seeing paths to many far places even though I can't clearly recall details of landmarks within the eluvians themselves," stated the Chevalier as he bent over the wartable map. "It was a confusing place, the Crossroads. And the keystone, the one we obtained from Imshael, seemed to open every door."

Solas nodded, hiding the eagerness with which he watched Michel de Chevin place markers. Apparently, Briala did not keep such information as secret as she should have. He knew from Felassan that her agents, assassins and spies traveled extensively through the mirrors. Though his own agent had failed at reclaiming the network and this 'keystone,' perhaps here was another way to do so.

Michel planted a red flag in an area just outside Halamshiral, then a white one inside the Winter Palace itself. Red meaning definite and white meaning suspected. Oh, Solas could just crow at the irony. While the shems bickered and argued over who might wear Orlais' crown and sit her throne during the masquerade, he just may find an … opportunity. Invited as a guest into the very heart of their Empire to take back what was once his.

He shook himself from his intrigues to hear Michel say—

"—so odd. I remember grey. Just grey everywhere, but then rarely, a bright bursting of colors. Flowers blooming in my periphery in every shade imaginable. And some hues I think I only ever could name in dreams," the Chevalier mused, gaze distant. He spun a red flag idly between thumb and forefinger.

Solas's brows raised in surprise. "Tell me, are you by chance elf-blooded?"

The man shot him a look of suspicion and shock, mouth turning down at the corners.

The apostate gave him a kind smile and said, "There is no one else here, but you do not have to divulge if you don't want to. And I have no interest in sharing such information with others."

Michel crossed his arms and peered at him with keen assessment, then he pursed his lips and said, "It is not as though I can somehow become _more_ disgraced than I already am. My mother is— _was_ an elf."

"Ah."

"How did you know?" asked the Chevalier.

Solas shrugged. "The eluvians were made by the ancient elvhen and traversed by the same. Does it not follow that it may appear different to those whose blood is of the People? And while what truly makes a being elvhen might be lost when mixed with human blood, it is possible there may be … residual energies. In your tale of Gaspard, Celene and Briala did you not say those who were fully human felt discomfited and confused by the Crossroads? That it slowed their steps and dazzled their perception?"

Realization dawned in the man's eye. "I felt the same, if not as badly. I had chalked it up to a hardier constitution. A lifetime of hardship versus the nobles' … softer existences. Briala and Felassan did not seem bothered at all, as I now recall. Hmm."

What glories the Chevalier might have witnessed had he been a full-blooded elf …. Well, fate had not deemed it so. Though it did interest Solas how any elf-blooded human might have become a Chevalier, an order reputed to only take in the noblest of bloodlines. He asked, "What are your plans? Now Imshael is defeated? Will you return to Orlais and try to find a place there?"

"The Inquisitor has made it known that it would be her pleasure to have me stay here for the time being. And I, in turn, am well pleased to be of use. To be a part of this cause. I had forgotten what it was like to be around those who say what they mean and do as they swear. As a Chevalier, I appreciate such forthrightness."

"We have no shortage of blunt people here, it's true." Solas laughed. "But also many who are more subtle."

"I have met your Spymaster and Ambassador. It is a well-rounded troupe assembled here. At this old and mysterious castle on a mountaintop." Michel's tone coaxed, even without a direct question.

"Skyhold _is_ ancient. Though it was little more than a ruin when the Inquisition first arrived." He kept it to the bare minimum of fact only.

"It is impressive how much can be rebuilt with faith and zeal. This place, situated in so secure a location, would be hard to siege by any conventional army." A tactician lay under the man's knightly trappings. Solas could see the drawing of scenarios in Michel's eyes. The Chevalier said, "But I hear this Corypheus has an archdemon at his command. Has your Commander taken that into consideration, I wonder?"

"Probably," said Solas, refusing to fence. "If you've a concern, you might speak to him about it, for I, a mere apostate, could not know the extent of Skyhold's defenses."

Michel hummed again in thought, then stabbed the map with another pin. "I have pledged my service, so I shall see if the Commander would like another eye to look for holes."

"A new perspective is always welcome," said a new voice at their backs. Cullen walked into the war-room with a confident smile, hands behind his back. "Michel de Chevin, I presume."

"Commander Rutherford. I am pleased to make your acquaintance." The Chevalier reached across and shook Cullen's hand with warm smile.

"Same. Your reputation precedes you, Ser. Welcome to the Inquisition," Cullen said. "So, what's this about our defenses?"

"I had wondered if you'd any countermeasures against aerial assault?"

"Ah, that damn archdemon. Well, yes, actually, I have ballista on the points. Trebuchet in the passes. And our Qunari friends have sent along some of their sappers and alchemists for that certain … _explosive_ element—"

Solas, between the pair, watched with interest as they hashed out different strategies. He offered one or two suggestions himself early on, but remained content to learn how _they'd_ oppose threats from above. They didn't need to know how _he_ would do so.

He filed all the information under 'good to know' and 'just in case.' And one or two truly creative tactics made him smile at their brilliance, these modern mortals.

Solas cleared his throat, and Cullen looked to him as though realizing he still stood in the room. The Commander colored in chagrin and said, "Apologies, Solas. I'm afraid I got carried away and interrupted whatever it was you and the Chevalier were doing."

"No need, Commander. We had made an excellent start on what will most likely take some time to fully investigate. I thought perhaps you'd like to extend your invitation to this evening's games to include Ser Michel."

" _That_ is an excellent suggestion. How about it, Ser? Do you, perchance, play chess?" Cullen's scarred lips drew into a boyish grin.

"Jeu d'échecs? I have been known to," said the Chevalier, a flash of intrigue in his eye.

"Well, then. Tonight, in the garden?"

"I would be most delighted."

Solas inclined his head and said, "I take my leave of you, gentlemen. There is much work to be done with my studies. And perhaps I should inform Varric he has another player to add to the pool."

Cullen groaned. "That dwarf will bet on anything, won't he. It's embarrassing."

The apostate hummed with amusement. "Not fond of your growing crowd of admirers?"

"All I want is a quiet game in the gardens. Is that so much to ask?"

Solas laughed. "Think of it as a morale booster. With the winter months closing in, we will all need some distraction."

Cullen sighed and rolled his eyes. "Fine. I don't have to like it, but I see your point. Might as well tell Varric I convinced Hawke to come, too."

"I shall, then. Good day to you both." With that, Solas left the war-room. He nodded to Josephine on the way out into the great hall only to have her call him back—

"Ser Solas, may I have a word?"

"Of course, Lady Montilyet." He altered his course to stand before her desk. The spray of flowers in a vase on the corner of it made the corner of his mouth lift.

She looked up at him like a woman harried. Things on the political front must be trying. Perhaps on the upswing now that their military efforts must slow for the winter? Josephine said, to his great amazement, "I don't suppose you dance, Ser Solas?"

Taking a page from Michel, he said, "I have been known to."

The Ambassador sighed a gusty sigh in relief, then seemed to catch herself. "Oh, but I should ask first."

"Then, by all means, ask. Do not leave me in suspense," said he, with arch smile.

She laughed and said, "I wondered if you might join us tomorrow in the lower dining hall for the Inquisitor's lessons? I regret to say her last instructor left, um, on rather bad terms and it's too late in the year to procure another before we strike out for the Winter Palace."

"I doubt _I_ have sufficient knowledge of courtly Orlesian dances to instruct the Inquisitor to any satisfactory degree."

"Oh, no. No, I didn't mean—" She took a deep breath to calm herself, then continued, "I apologize. I have been extremely busy of late. And now, I'm expected to take over this aspect of her education personally, so I'm feeling a tad ..."

"Stretched thin?" he finished for her. "How may I help ease your burden then?"

Josephine gave him a grateful smile. "One never knows precisely what sort of dance is the fashion of the season, so we must cover most, just in case. Couples dances are taught easily enough. How to lead, how to follow. Just she and I can handle that much, but what if the Empress demands Ferelden figures or Navarran circle dances?"

"So you need extra bodies," he mused. "I am willing to help. Tomorrow, you said?"

"In the morning." Her smile widened. "Thank you for doing this, Ser Solas. I know we all are busy."

"It is no great drain on my time and dancing happens to be an enjoyable physical activity. I will see you in the morning, Ambassador." He bowed from the waist.

Her eyes gleamed in appreciation of the courtesy, though she said, "Just Josephine, please."

"No. Respect given for respect received and you have ever been respectful toward me, Lady Montilyet." He gave her a warm smile.

She blinked, then chuckled. Her head inclined as she stood to curtsey. "Then so shall it be, Ser Solas."

Solas turned after one more farewell and strode toward the door. It opened before he reached it though, and he found himself looking down at 'Claudia's' bowed and bonneted head.

"My mistress asks that you accompany me," came her lightly accented voice.

Schooling his expression to neutral, he said, "Lead the way."

* * *

 **A/N: I know I said the updates would be more regular, but you know, life is being a butt. Lol. Excuses aside, I hope you are all still enjoying this. We got some super fluff and twee in the near future. It's not really spoilers to say that. I love these characters, as I'm sure I've said before. I'm happy and grateful to share that love with you all. :D**


	50. Chapter 50

She spun in a flurry of demure skirts and opened the second door. But she did not turn to the left, as expected. He puzzled over where they might be going as he followed her across the hall, up the stairs to the mezzanine. Giving a gracious nod to Vivienne as he passed, he then stared at the disguised Inquisitor's straight back as she led him outside to a walkway that edged the gardens.

Stopping at the second door along the far wall, she turned and dropped into a low curtsey. Curious, Solas opened the door. A bedchamber, sparely furnished, greeted his inquisitive gaze. He stepped in and she followed, closing the door behind them.

As soon as they were alone, Tir'alas straightened from her submissive slouch. She looked him in the eye with a sly grin. Gesturing about, she said, "It's yours."

Solas looked around, touched and discomfited all at once. "I was perfectly content in the rotunda."

She snorted. "On a couch? With da'len'en running through all the time? With Dorian throwing books? _And_ being subjected to possible bird doings falling from above?"

"Well, then, perhaps not perfectly. But I'll have you know Leliana's ravens are quite well-behaved."

"A well-behaved corbie is just one that's polite enough to wait for you to die before eating your eyeballs." She advanced on him in a predator's stalk, a savage grin pulling at her full lips.

"Morbid." Solas swallowed as she backed him up against the small desk. Inches away, he watched as her tongue came out to swipe along her bottom lip.

She said, "Morbid, but true. Just because they're housebroken, does that change what they are?"

"I suppose not." His eyes fluttered shut as she ran her fingers along his jaw. The guilt roared within as he barely heard her say—

"Plus this room has a door. One that locks," she coaxed, leaning into him. His arms came up unbidden to embrace her, even as his heart shouted damning accusations in a loud, thundering voice.

He wound his hands into the rough cotton ties of her apron, desperate for something to keep a hold off lest his will drain completely away. _Break away, break away, br_ —"Vhenan, I—"

Her mouth found his, and the two-tone moan that broke from both their throats blasted every thought out of his mind all at once. The thin, tense wire of his control snapped and his hands flew, needing to be everywhere, touching everything.

How deftly she'd slipped through the barriers around his tarnished soul and made a home there. Never had anyone found their way so close, or been so welcomed by some deep part of him he'd never suspected existed.

She pushed him onto the bed, clever fingers unclothing him with startling speed. Her own garments followed, until she speared herself on him with a satisfied moan. He bit the inside of his cheek as she began riding him, pelvis tilting back and forth. The fluctuation of sensation rippled up and down his body from every point of contact. Her fingers over his chest. His palms at her waist. The tickle of her hair at his neck as she bent to kiss his chin. His lips. His eartips.

Control started to unravel. Bucking up to meet her, Solas gasped her name and a plea to slow down before he spilled far, far too early. But before his eyes, her lips curled into a most wicked grin and she sped up, clenching down on his cock with her inner muscles. That proved to be his downfall, as, with a choked moan, he plunged over the edge of ecstasy. Pulse after pulse left him, each with a heaving breath.

When the stars faded from his sight, he saw her looking back down at him with a satisfied smirk. A small growl escaped him as he pulled her down on top of him and wrapped his arms tight around her. She shifted around until she laid in the curl of one arm, ear to chest.

Sanity returned after ardor was sated, settled. Recrimination sat, a dull roar behind his eyes. His rapid breathing slowed while his fingers drew circles in the small of her back.

She hummed in appreciation as her leg found a comfortable roost on his thigh. "You have a year to stop that." Her voice settled him, an anchor keeping him from flying apart.

Solas chuckled, flattening his palm to her flesh before resuming the languid strokes. She shivered and arched her back under his touch like a feline. His other hand came up to brush a sweaty strand of black hair from her shoulder before subjecting it to the same treatment. Running fingertips from shoulder to wrist, then back up, up and up all the way to the point of her ear.

His vhenan melted into him with a tremulous sigh and tilted her head upwards to look at him with the grey mirrors of her eyes. "I love your hands."

"Evidently."

"Are you laughing at me?" she said, brows furrowing in mock anger, as though her contented glow could be snuffed by a mere crinkling of skin.

"Only a little, vhenan." How that word blazed in his mind like a brand. And it felt so true that he found it hard to question its possibly ignoble beginnings just then. Let those thoughts come later.

Let him have this one measure of selfishness. He asked, "Did you ...?"

"There will be time for my turn later. I have to get back to my duties soon."

Resisting an urge to pout, Solas put his lips to her forehead and murmured, "Is it true you frightened off your dance instructor?"

Her mouth turned down in a tiny moue of displeasure. "Piggish little man. I was more than glad to give him a boot to the rear out the gate. I would really have rather dropped him off the tower, but Josie convinced me murdering guests is … impolite."

"What did he do that offended you so?"

"Oh, the standard sorts of condescension really. Allusions of elven inferiority. Wandering hands when it came to the 'help.' Namely me as Claudia. The idiot kept calling me his 'petit lapin' and complaining about not being able to find decent company, and how he was _so_ glad to meet a fellow Orlesian. One who knew her place."

Solas's arm closed tighter on her in reflex. He said, when words could be found beyond the outrage, "I think I might have to find this man and kill him."

"My champion." She laughed against his shoulder. "But no, firing him is enough. And Josie's working on ruining him, as we speak. Far worse, she assures me."

Solas forced himself to relax. "Not nearly as satisfying as strangulation, but I suppose for a man such as that, his reputation counts for more than his life."

"Exactly so, emma lath." She took his other hand and kissed the palm, then sighed as he took to carding those fingers through her mid-back length tresses. Then she lifted herself off him and loomed, her tousled hair falling to make a curtain to cut them off from the world. She searched his face as though imprinting its memory on her very spirit. Then she smiled and said, "Do you like the room?"

He returned the smile with a lingering kiss, before saying, "Yes. It will be pleasant to have privacy. Thank you, vhenan."

"Anything for you," she replied, soft as a zephyr. His heart seized at the certainty, the naked _sincerity_ in her gaze. Then she blinked and rolled away to sit up, hands reaching for her garments. Underthings, shift, stockings, frock and apron. It all went on with practiced ease in a matter of minutes. Her hair she twisted into a messy bun, then shoved under her bonnet once more.

A tiny looking glass she drew out of a pocket in the inner lining of her dress, and peered into it with a frown. "The enchantment's faded. I'll have to hurry back to my quarters to refresh it if I plan on running around as Claudia any more today."

"So, it's a magical disguise," he mused, watching her. "A glamour."

Tir'alas looked over to see his avid interest. "This disguise wouldn't be much of one if my face looked exactly the same."

"I see the wisdom of it, I am merely curious how you came about learning how to do complex illusions when we have not even approached the matter during your lessons."

"A … device I've only recently been able to procure with Inquisition's abundant resources. It's useful in so many ways, so I didn't feel too bad about abusing our treasury. I have wanted it ever since I first laid eyes on it many years ago." Laughing, she pulled on her dainty peasant shoes. "I can show you later. It's not all that complicated."

He begged to differ, but stayed silent as she readied to leave. Clad once more in Claudia's garb, she bowed shoulders and head to make herself seem smaller and defenseless, harmless. Prim and proper as any real handmaiden.

"You have worked as a servant before," he stated, certain of it.

Her blank, polite countenance turned to look at him over her shoulder. "Are you asking for a story, Solas? Have you not yet had your fill of the story of me?"

He smiled and challenged, "Yes, to the first. As for the second, I suspect I shall never tire of plumbing your depths."

His mouth went dry as he realized how that sounded. Hasty words. Salacious implications. A flush creeped up his neck as she stared back at him with wide eyes. Yet he couldn't think of a way to rescind it gracefully.

Then she grinned, with barely suppressed mirth. "Good. Tonight?"

"I …. Yes." He sighed and just accepted that he'd indeed said that, and deserved her laughter at his expense. "I … also had a thought. Perhaps we could meet in the Fade."

"For storytime?" Her features sharpened with intrigue. "Actually, that sounds really interesting. Then, perhaps not _tonight_ tonight? I thought to perhaps come visit again. As myself, I mean."

A breath of excitement shot through him. "As you wish."

She slipped out with one last smile for him before her servant persona swallowed Tir'alas up behind a blank mask.

He laid back on the pillow with another sigh, closing his eyes. The room had a comfortable, cozy silence to it that soothed.

 _Yes, this is … nice._

* * *

A/N: So, a long overdue update for all of you still interested in this silly story of mine. I'm so sorry they don't come as regular as they once did. Maybe someday, I can get on that and get this train back on schedule. But I promise, the fic's not dead. It's just ... hibernating. Lol. Love you all. I hope your holidays are going splendidly!


	51. Chapter 51

"Slide, then quickstep. Slide, and then quickstep. Watch your elbows." Cullen gave a wide smile as he passed Tir'alas in the center of another figure eight. Dressed down to just doublet and trews, the man displayed surprising nimbleness despite his still-imposing physique. Light on booted heels, he brought left arm up, elbow at ninety degrees, palm flat to rest against hers as they then spun once in the middle of the room before parting again in another sweeping mobius.

From where she tapped on a tambourine, Leliana commented, "I'm surprised at your knowledge, Cullen. I didn't expect you to show an interest in courtly dances, considering your background."

Solas watched with interest as the Commander did a little leaping hop that brought heels together with a smart _clack!_ Then the steps reset for another pass.

"What can I say? Mother had … ambitions. My siblings and I practiced every day for as long as I can remember," said Cullen, with a snort. "I think she still harbored hopes that I'd marry into a title all the way up the minute I left to join the Templars. Since such is the usual fate of second and third sons of minor landholders."

Tir'alas laughed. "That poor woman."

Cullen flashed a smirk. "My mother? Or the hapless lady I might have married?"

"Both," she joked, flashing her teeth.

"Ouch." He nodded in abashed agreement, then said, "Aaand one last turn … and curtsey. Or bow, in my case." The action matched the words just as he spoke them. Maryden played a last lingering note on her lute as the pair parted.

Solas applauded politely with the watching crowd. Just those participating in this morning's exercise. The Iron Bull loomed at the back, avid interest on his craggy face.

Josephine stepped to the fore, a huge smile on her face. "That was a marvelous Bourree, Cullen. I don't know why I never thought to ask before if anyone _here_ knew dances."

"Would have saved us a lot of time and trouble," grumbled a winded Tir'alas as she wiped sweat from her brow with a nearby cloth. "And money."

The Ambassador said, "Alright, now let us get four couples out on the floor and we'll go over how this works in a large ballroom."

Solas stepped forward to claim his heart's hand, shooting Cullen a somewhat less than apologetic shrug. The man returned it with an understanding nod and moved to pair with Josephine. Vivienne and, in another surprise, Bull stood across as Isabella and Hawke took up the last spot.

After a few minutes of further explanation, the music started again, bright and lively. Solas did his best to concentrate on the steps even as Tir'alas sought to distract him with touches that lingered for a second too long. He admonished her with raised brow as the four couples twirled and hopped and clasped hands in geometric figures on the worn stone of Skyhold's lower hall.

He started to ponder the deeper meaning of the dance as they wound away into looping figure eights. A courtship; at times far from reach, all longing looks, then close enough to steal the breath at others. The barest allowed contact inflaming repressed desires.

Memories started to intrude and tried to move his feet in older patterns, more familiar cadences. To draw his lover closer to him. It kept trying to paint over Tir'alas's plain attire in gauzy streamers of fabric finer than any seen in the world since ages long dead. Textures alive and full of magic, wafting on the air, weightless.

Solas blinked as the dance drew to a close with him facing his love, her skin flushed so prettily under his steady stare. He gave a brief shudder as the present took him again, and offered her a warm smile.

Something flickered in her heated gaze, but she dropped into a graceful curtsey, bowing her elegant head on regal neck. With chagrin, Solas remembered to bow. Applause broke over the group from the kitchen doorway. Cook and the other servers giving encouraging and somewhat ribald calls.

The pairs broke apart to retreat to the sidelines once more. Solas let go of Tir'alas's hands so she could go stand across from him. They'd agreed to not be too obvious.

Josephine said, "So now you've a basic grasp on that, we'll move on to the Starkhavener Strathspey and Tulloch—"

Leliana interrupted, "I don't believe we'll need that one."

"What do you mean? It was all the rage last year," said the Ambassador with a frown.

"Which is why it won't be danced this year," inserted Vivienne.

"One reason anyway," the Spymaster rejoindered. "The bagpipes gave Celene a terrible headache for weeks after, or so her closest friends say. It could be she may have exaggerated, but also, Starkhaven is out of favor at the moment. Some rumor of their princeling making demands, currying undue support for a most unwise move on Kirkwall."

The Ambassador took this in with a thoughtful purse of the lips. "Well, I suppose we could just go back over the traditional dances again—"

"What about the Sevillanas?" asked Leliana, expression innocent but for the almost playful glint of her eyes under her hood. "Remember?"

"But that's not a courtly dance really," said Josephine, color rising in her cheeks.

Leliana stepped forward after handing her tambourine to Hawke, who looked at the jingly drum with a pained sort of confusion. She held a hand out to Josephine and smiled a devilish smile. "No, but it is fun. And eye-catching."

"I don't even have my castanets—"

The Spymaster handed her something from her belt pouch. "Good thing I thought to grab them from your desk then."

"Leliana—" She stopped, seeming to be at a loss for words.

Giving a satisfied smile, the Spymaster pulled back her hood and gave Maryden a signal with her hand. Then her stance changed. Shoulders drew back as her body became a tense and aesthetically pleasing line. Her hands came up to clap out a beat just as the minstrel started to pluck her lute strings in a style of music that Solas had never heard before. Lively, with a driving passion and exotic flair that captivated.

Josephine shook her head but mirrored Leliana's posture anyway, rattling the castanets in her hands and tapping the stone floor intermittently with one heel.

At an unseen signal, their arms rose in perfect synch, hands twisting in sinuous shapes in the air. They stepped toward and then away from each other, then slim arms would encircle waists as they traded positions. Almost, but not quite drawing bodies flush to one another. Josephine laughed as they wove figures with precise timing.

Leliana hummed through curving lips. The tenor of the music started to change, quickening. The Spymaster's heels clacked on the stone in syncopating rhythms, faster and faster until, with an abrupt spin, she stood less than a hair's-breath from Josephine, arms extended up in a 'v.'

Josephine's brows raised in surprise. She shot a questioning look over at Maryden, whose plucking had slowed to single, mournful chords. The minstrel smiled in conspiracy with the Spymaster. Then, Josephine said, as her arms raised to just under Leliana's, " _That_ is not the Sevillanas."

The Spymaster's face hardened into proud, theatrical lines, though her eyes danced in mischief. "No. It isn't."

Then the music started to build again and the pair began to move. Leliana would advance a step while Josephine retreated one. Then they'd shift the other direction, always keeping the same tiny gap between them. The tempo jumped and they quick-stepped around each other in a flurry of clacking heels, tension building, until with another abrupt shift, they'd be almost still again, staring at each other. Full of wanting, yet too proud to give in. Arms almost embracing, almost touching. So close that they, no doubt, could hear each other's hearts pounding in the scant space between them.

Primal and undeniably sexual. And full of furious sorrow.

It pulled at Solas, this ... dance of things that could never be. He watched, rapt, as Josephine's lips parted, virtually panting as Leliana's flushed, but yearning countenance drew close, inches away. Yet they never broke the careful barrier between them, no matter how thin.

"My, is it getting hot in here?" whispered Isabella, next to him. He glanced over to see her fan herself.

Hawke replied, just as soft, "Any hotter and my knickers will catch fire."

The pirate giggled. "As if you wear any."

Solas just kept himself from choking as Iron Bull said, "He's not the only one, but seriously, the laces on my breeches are starting to strain."

Vivienne gave a disapproving sigh. "Must you be crass _all_ the time?"

The Qunari muttered, "Sorry, ma'am." He didn't sound all that sorry.

Movement caught Solas's eye. Past the whirling dancers, Tir'alas stood, watching them with calculated poise, her own hands turning and twisting to mimic some of their movements. Her lips drew to one side as she worked out the dance's particulars. It made him imagine being out there on the floor, dancing this dance with her. A flush crept north, and he resisted the urge to pull collar away from the heated skin of his neck.

With a spinning flourish, Leliana drew Josephine flush to her by the waist, other arm arcing up to frame with a pointed finger. Josephine mirrored. They froze as the song ended, heaving breaths audible now in the silence.

Bull started clapping, which everyone then picked up until the hall rang with it.

Both grinning, the Ambassador and Spymaster 'broke character' to spin away from each other and bow low to their audience. Grasping Leliana's hand, Josephine said, "I never taught you the flamenco. Where? How?"

"I told you of my friend, Zevran, did I not?"

Josephine looked down with chagrin. "Ah. Of course. The … Antivan Crow you met while traveling with the Hero of Ferelden. I'm surprised an assassin would know of such things, however."

Leliana shrugged. "He grew up in a brothel."

"Speaking of which, I am not sure how … appropriate this dance would be at court," said Vivienne, stepping forth out of the crowd. "You were all but having intercourse out here. Not exactly the image we want to present."

"So, that's how nobs dance, eh?" hissed a new voice at his elbow. Solas looked down to see Sera, crouched in their midst. But she wasn't addressing _him._ He wondered if she'd been there the whole time. "More 'ris-quee' than expected. Never thought old Josie could wiggle like that, all her bits bouncing. Though now I s'pose I see the point of the ruffles."

Isabella responded, "I've known nobs who got up to far worse in polite company. Isn't that right, Hawke?"

The man groaned. "Once, Iz. It happened once."

"That's not what I hear," she teased.

Sera laughed. "Wot. Are you some kinda man-slut?"

"He is, to my great pride." Isabella gave Hawke an unrepentant smirk in the face of his thunderous glower. "Except when it came to a certain lanky—"

"Isabella!" hissed Hawke, angry.

The pirate laughed. Then she mused, "So, Leli knows Zevran, hmm?"

"Who doesn't?" Hawke's tone soured.

Solas tuned out their inane chatter to focus on the women standing in the center of the room—

"—I am just saying. There may be some merit in it," said Leliana, calm in the face of Vivienne's disdain.

"The only result I foresee is this convincing the peerage that the Inquisition is run by the low and uncivilized. We need to establish our place among them. Play the Game twice as well—"

"As though you are the only player of note in the room," argued Josephine, her posture clearly indicating a protective lean toward Leliana. "As though our Spymaster didn't survive just as many years among the pretty vipers of court _and_ the grasping ambition of those within the Chantry."

"My dear, of course your ideas have merit. I am merely pointing out that change will frighten the nobles at court. They are comfortable with tradition. Even their most radical 'new' trends are just recycled from a few years past. They will resist our influence if we mark ourselves too far outside the expected."

From their downcast expressions, Josephine and Leliana agreed, albeit grudgingly. The Ambassador said, with a sigh, "Well, I suppose we'll just get on with learning well-known dances—"

"Bugger that for a lark, ladies," said Sera, lunging up to stand erect. She then squeezed between Solas and Isabella to take the floor. "S'boring. You're gonna make us boring. Who cares what a bunch of rich fuckarses thinks? We shouldn't be boring. We should be dangerous. And _that_ , when Josie and Leli were bumpin' uglies wiv clothes on, that was dangerous."

Vivienne turned with a twist on her lips. No one affected her sensibilities like Sera. "You'd have us rut like animals before the Orlesian court, before her Imperial Highness, Celene Valmont the First."

"Not animals. _People_. People fuck. You might have forgotten, with that frostbox 'tween your legs. And most find it fun." Sera paused as everyone around her held their collective breaths, waiting for bloody reprisal no doubt. "We should be loud, and messy. If we're loud enough, maybe the gobshite _Empress_ of friggin' _Orlais_ ,"—her scowling expression made this the darkest sort of swear imaginable as she continued, "will _listen_ when we tell her someb'dy's looking to stab her in the royal kidneys."

A smile pulled at his lips as he watched the little blond archer stand up to the fearsome knight-enchanter, giving glare for icy glare.

Tir'alas gave a huffing laugh and spoke up, "She has a fair point. We probably won't fit in regardless, so why try? Good or bad, we need to make a lasting impression. Not just glide beneath notice."

All the advisors looked at each other, conferring without words. Leliana said, 'I _would_ dearly love to see their faces."

"We should be able to make ourselves the center of attention fairly easily. That will draw the Empress's eye and ear," Josephine agreed.

Cullen snorted. "Let no fatuous Orlesian or Ferelden noble dictate to _us_ how we should behave. We set their lands back to rights, so damn them if they scoff or gasp."

Vivienne sighed and lifted her head a little higher on her neck. "If we must be outrageous, then let us be tastefully so."

Their leader clapped her hands once, loud and ringing. "A compromise, then. Show me how I can best take control of the dance floor like it's a battlefield, for if what you say is true, that's not far off the mark. I want shock and awe. I want them full of terror trying to imagine what we will do next. I want to ruffle the shit out of their sensibilities. But with _taste_."

Grins all around greeted her declaration. One scandalous suggestion after another got tossed back and forth, until even Vivienne smiled with sinister glee. Yes, how easily Tir'alas brought them together, yoked to one grand idea.

Solas admired her as she, like the sun, spun them all in her orbit.

* * *

 **A/N: Holy crap, it's been awhile! I'm so sorry this story has dropped off. I WILL finish it, I swear. Hopefully before the next installment of the series. I've been playing through Inquisition for inspiration and hope to update a little more regularly, if I can find a quiet corner to write in peace. Too many distractions dang it. lol.**

 **If anyone's curious, I based Leli and Josie's flamenco off one I saw on youtube ages back. Antonio Gades and Cristina Hoyos, fuckin' LEGENDARY. lol. I loves them. Check it out, if you want.**

 **Any comments or critiques are, as always, very welcome! I hoard them. I put them in a tiny box in my memories and pull them out to marvel at because it's so wonderful that other people like my silly stories too. Love you all**


End file.
